“John dear, what’s the matter?”

“Matter, my love?”

“Won’t you tell me,” said Bella, looking up into his face, “what you are thinking of?”

“There’s not much in the thought, my soul. I was thinking whether you wouldn’t like me to be rich?”

“You rich, John?” repeated Bella, shrinking a little.

“I mean, really rich. Say, as rich as Mr. Boffin. You would like that?”

“I should be almost afraid to try, John dear. Was he much the better for his wealth? Was I much the better for the little part I once had in it?”

“But all people are not the worse for riches, my own.”

“Most people?” Bella musingly suggested with raised eyebrows.

“Nor even most people, it may be hoped. If you were rich, for instance, you would have a great power of doing good to others.”

“Yes, sir, for instance,” Bella playfully rejoined; “but should I exercise the power, for instance? And again, sir, for instance; should I, at the same time, have a great power of doing harm to myself?”

Laughing and pressing her arm, he retorted: “But still, again for instance; would you exercise that power?”

“I don’t know,” said Bella, thoughtfully shaking her head. “I hope not. I think not. But it’s so easy to hope not and think not, without the riches.”

“Why don’t you say, my darling — instead of that phrase — being poor?” he asked, looking earnestly at her.

“Why don’t I say, being poor! Because I am not poor. Dear John, it’s not possible that you suppose I think we are poor?”

“I do, my love.” “Oh John!”

“Understand me, sweetheart. I know that I am rich beyond all wealth in having you; but I think of you, and think for you. In such a dress as you are wearing now, you first charmed me, and in no dress could you ever look, to my thinking, more graceful or more beautiful. But you have admired many finer dresses this very day; and is it not natural that I wish I could give them to you?”

“It’s very nice that you should wish it, John. It brings these tears of grateful pleasure into my eyes, to hear you say so with such tenderness. But I don’t want them.”

“Again,” he pursued, “we are now walking through the muddy streets. I love those pretty feet so dearly, that I feel as if I could not bear the dirt to soil the sole of your shoe. Is it not natural that I wish you could ride in a carriage?”

“It’s very nice,” said Bella, glancing downward at the feet in question, “to know that you admire them so much, John dear, and since you do, I am sorry that these shoes are a full size too large. But I don’t want a carriage, believe me.”

“You would like one if you could have one, Bella?”