“ If you sell it,” was Mr. Boffin’s comment, as he put it in his pocket.
Alfred followed it with his looks, and also greedily pursued the notes until they vanished into Mr. Boffin’s waistcoat pocket. Then he directed a look, half exasperated and half jeering, at his wife. She still stood sketching; but, as she sketched, there was a struggle within her, which found expression in the depth of the few last lines the parasol point indented into the tablecloth, and then some tears fell from her eyes.
“Why, confound the woman,” exclaimed Lammle, “she is sentimental!”
She walked to the window, flinching under his angry stare, looked out for a moment, and turned round quite coldly.
“You have had no former cause of complaint on the sentimental score, Alfred, and you will have none in future. It is not worth your noticing. We go abroad soon, with the money we have earned here?”
“You know we do; you know we must.”
“There is no fear of my taking any sentiment with me. I should soon be eased of it, if I did. But it will be all left behind. It is all left behind. Are you ready, Alfred?”
“What the deuce have I been waiting for but you, Sophronia?”
“Let us go then. I am sorry I have delayed our dignified departure.”
She passed out and he followed her. Mr. and Mrs. Boffin had the curiosity softly to raise a window and look after them as they went down the long street. They walked arm-in-arm, showily enough, but without appearing to interchange a syllable. It might have been fanciful to suppose that under their outer bearing there was something of the shamed air of two cheats who were linked together by concealed