Mrs. Boffin adding her nod and smile of welcome to Mr. Boffin’s words, Bella took her book to a chair in the fireside corner, by Mrs. Boffin’s worktable. Mr. Boffin’s station was on the opposite side.
“Now, Rokesmith,” said the Golden Dustman, so sharply rapping the table to bespeak his attention as Bella turned the leaves of her book, that she started; “where were we?”
“You were saying, sir,” returned the Secretary, with an air of some reluctance and a glance towards those others who were present, “that you considered the time had come for fixing my salary.”
“Don’t be above calling it wages, man,” said Mr. Boffin, testily. “What the deuce! I never talked of any salary when I was in service.”
“My wages,” said the Secretary, correcting himself.
“Rokesmith, you are not proud, I hope?” observed Mr. Boffin, eyeing him askance.
“I hope not, sir.”
“Because I never was, when I was poor,” said Mr. Boffin. “Poverty and pride don’t go at all well together. Mind that. How can they go well together? Why it stands to reason. A man, being poor, has nothing to be proud of. It’s nonsense.”
With a slight inclination of his head, and a look of some surprise, the Secretary seemed to assent by forming the syllables of the word “nonsense” on his lips.
“Now, concerning these same wages,” said Mr. Boffin. “Sit down.”
The Secretary sat down.