‘What do you call her, ma’am?’ asked Mr Boffin.
Mrs Lammle disdained to reply, and sat defiantly beating one foot on the ground.
‘Again I think I may say, that’s not impossible. Is it, sir?’ asked Mr Boffin, turning to Alfred.
‘It is not,’ said Alfred, smiling assent as before, ‘not impossible.’
‘Now,’ said Mr Boffin, gently, ‘it won’t do. I don’t wish to say a single word that might be afterwards remembered as unpleasant; but it won’t do.’
‘Sophronia, my love,’ her husband repeated in a bantering manner, ‘you hear? It won’t do.’
‘No,’ said Mr Boffin, with his voice still dropped, ‘it really won’t. You positively must excuse us. If you’ll go your way, we’ll go ours, and so I hope this affair ends to the satisfaction of all parties.’
Mrs Lammle gave him the look of a decidedly dissatisfied party demanding exemption from the category; but said nothing.
‘The best thing we can make of the affair,’ said Mr Boffin, ‘is a matter of business, and as a matter of business it’s brought to a conclusion. You have done me a great service, a very great service, and I have paid for it. Is there any objection to the price?’
Mr and Mrs Lammle looked at one another across the table, but neither could say that there was. Mr Lammle shrugged his shoulders, and Mrs Lammle sat rigid.