The worst of the matter was, that it thus fell out insensibly—and most provokingly, as Bella complained to herself, in her impetuous little manner—that her observation of Mr. Boffin involved a continual observation of Mr. Rokesmith. “Won’t that extract a look from him?”—“Can it be possible that makes no impression on him?” Such questions Bella would propose to herself, often as many times in a day as there were hours in it. Impossible to know. Always the same fixed face.
“Can he be so base as to sell his very nature for two hundred a year?” Bella would think. And then, “But why not? It’s a mere question of price with others besides him. I suppose I would sell mine, if I could get enough for it.” And so she would come round again to the war with herself.
A kind of illegibility, though a different kind, stole over Mr. Boffin’s face. Its old simplicity of expression got masked by a certain craftiness that assimilated even his good-humour to itself. His very smile was cunning, as if he had been studying smiles among