“I don’t care for him,” said Bella.
“That’s enough,” her father interposed.
“No, Pa, it’s not enough,” rejoined Bella, giving him another shake or two. “Haven’t I told you what a mercenary little wretch I am? It only becomes enough when he has no money, and no clients, and no expectations, and no anything but debts.”
“Hah!” said the cherub, a little depressed. “Number three, my dear?”
“Number three, Pa, is a better thing. A generous thing, a noble thing, a delightful thing. Mrs. Boffin has herself told me, as a secret, with her own kind lips—and truer lips never opened or closed in this life, I am sure—that they wish to see me well married; and that when I marry with their consent they will portion me most handsomely.” Here the grateful girl burst out crying very heartily.
“Don’t cry, my darling,” said her father, with his hand to his eyes; “it’s excusable in me to be a little overcome when I find that my dear favourite child is, after all disappointments, to be so provided for and so raised in the world; but don’t you cry, don’t you cry. I am very thankful. I congratulate you with all my heart, my dear.” The good soft little fellow, drying his eyes, here, Bella put her arms round his neck and tenderly kissed him on the high road, passionately telling him he was the best of fathers and the best of friends, and that on her wedding-morning she would go down on her knees to him and beg his pardon for having ever teased him or seemed insensible to the worth of such a patient, sympathetic, genial, fresh young heart. At every one of her adjectives she redoubled her kisses, and finally kissed his hat off, and then laughed immoderately when the wind took it and he ran after it.
When he had recovered his hat and his breath, and they were going on again once more, said her father then: “Number four, my dear?”