“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.
“Very good,” said Mr. Boffin. “We hope (my old lady and me) that you’ll give us credit for taking the plainest and honestest short-cut that could be taken under the circumstances. We have talked it over with a deal of care (my old lady and me), and we have felt that at all to lead you on, or even at all to let you go on of your own selves, wouldn’t be the right thing. So, I have openly given you to understand that —” Mr. Boffin sought for a new turn of speech, but could find none so expressive as his former one, repeated in a confidential tone, “— that it won’t do. If I could have put the case more pleasantly I would; but I hope I haven’t put it very unpleasantly; at all events I haven’t meant to. So,” said Mr. Boffin, by way of peroration, “wishing you well in the way you go, we now conclude with the observation that perhaps you’ll go it.”
Mr. Lammle rose with an impudent laugh on his side of the table, and Mrs. Lammle rose with a disdainful frown on hers. At this moment a hasty foot was heard on the staircase, and Georgiana Podsnap broke into the room, unannounced and in tears.
“Oh, my dear Sophronia,” cried Georgiana, wringing her hands as she ran up to embrace her, “to think that you and Alfred should be ruined! Oh, my poor dear Sophronia, to think that you should have had a Sale at your house after all your kindness to me! Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, pray forgive me for this intrusion, but you don’t know how fond I was of Sophronia when Pa wouldn’t let me go there any more, or what I have felt for Sophronia since I heard from Ma of her having been brought low in the world. You don’t, you can’t, you never can, think, how I have lain awake at night and cried for my good Sophronia, my first and only friend!”
Mrs. Lammle’s manner changed under the poor silly girl’s embraces, and she turned extremely pale: directing one appealing look, first to Mrs. Boffin, and then to Mr. Boffin. Both understood her instantly, with a more delicate subtlety than much better educated people, whose perception came less directly from the heart, could have brought to bear upon the case.
“I haven’t a minute,” said poor little Georgiana, “to stay. I am out shopping early with Ma, and I said I had a headache and got Ma to leave me outside in the phaeton, in Piccadilly, and ran round to Sackville Street, and heard that Sophronia was here, and then Ma came to see, oh such a dreadful old stony woman from the country in a turban in Portland Place, and I said I wouldn’t go up with Ma but would drive round and leave cards for the Boffins, which is taking a liberty with the name; but oh my goodness I am distracted, and the phaeton’s at the door, and what would Pa say if he knew it!”
“Don’t ye be timid, my dear,” said Mrs. Boffin. “You came in to see us.”