“Don’t alarm me at the very beginning. My daughter Bella⁠—Emily having gone to bed with a headache after she had read Arabella’s letter to me⁠—sat herself down by my side the other evening, and began to talk over this marriage affair. ‘Well, pa,’ she says, ‘what do you think of it?’ ‘Why, my dear,’ I said, ‘I suppose it’s all very well; I hope it’s for the best.’ I answered in this way because I was sitting before the fire at the time, drinking my grog rather thoughtfully, and I knew my throwing in an undecided word now and then, would induce her to continue talking. Both my girls are pictures of their dear mother, and as I grow old I like to sit with only them by me; for their voices and looks carry me back to the happiest period of my life, and make me, for the moment, as young as I used to be then, though not quite so lighthearted. ‘It’s quite a marriage of affection, pa,’ said Bella, after a short silence. ‘Yes, my dear,’ said I, ‘but such marriages do not always turn out the happiest.’ ”

“I question that, mind!” interposed Mr. Pickwick warmly.