‘What have you been?’ asked Mr Boffin.
Here again he made no great advance, for the reply was, ‘I have been a student and a traveller.’
‘But if it ain’t a liberty to plump it out,’ said Mr Boffin, ‘what do you do for your living?’
‘I have mentioned,’ returned the other, with another look at him, and a smile, ‘what I aspire to do. I have been superseded as to some slight intentions I had, and I may say that I have now to begin life.’
Not very well knowing how to get rid of this applicant, and feeling the more embarrassed because his manner and appearance claimed a delicacy in which the worthy Mr Boffin feared he himself might be deficient, that gentleman glanced into the mouldy little plantation or cat-preserve, of Clifford’s Inn, as it was that day, in search of a suggestion. Sparrows were there, cats were there, dry-rot and wet-rot were there, but it was not otherwise a suggestive spot.
‘All this time,’ said the stranger, producing a little pocket-book and taking out a card, ‘I have not mentioned my name. My name is Rokesmith. I lodge at one Mr Wilfer’s, at Holloway.’
Mr Boffin stared again.
‘Father of Miss Bella Wilfer?’ said he.
‘My landlord has a daughter named Bella. Yes; no doubt.’
Now, this name had been more or less in Mr Boffin’s thoughts all the morning, and for days before; therefore he said: