“Good!” said Mr. Boffin. “Very good! Now let us hear what they’re all about; will you be so good?”
John Rokesmith read his abstracts aloud. They were all about the new house. Decorator’s estimate, so much. Furniture estimate, so much. Estimate for furniture of offices, so much. Coach-maker’s estimate, so much. Horse-dealer’s estimate, so much. Harness-maker’s estimate, so much. Goldsmith’s estimate, so much. Total, so very much. Then came correspondence. Acceptance of Mr. Boffin’s offer of such a date, and to such an effect. Rejection of Mr. Boffin’s proposal of such a date and to such an effect. Concerning Mr. Boffin’s scheme of such another date to such another effect. All compact and methodical.
“Apple-pie order!” said Mr. Boffin, after checking off each inscription with his hand, like a man beating time. “And whatever you do with your ink, I can’t think, for you’re as clean as a whistle after it. Now, as to a letter. Let’s,” said Mr. Boffin, rubbing his hands in his pleasantly childish admiration, “let’s try a letter next.”
“To whom shall it be addressed, Mr. Boffin?”
“Anyone. Yourself.”
Mr. Rokesmith quickly wrote, and then read aloud:
“ ‘Mr. Boffin presents his compliments to Mr. John Rokesmith, and begs to say that he has decided on giving Mr. John Rokesmith a trial in the capacity he desires to fill. Mr. Boffin takes Mr. John Rokesmith at his word, in postponing to some indefinite period, the consideration of salary. It is quite understood that Mr. Boffin is in no way committed on that point. Mr. Boffin has merely to add, that he relies on Mr. John Rokesmith’s assurance that he will be faithful and serviceable. Mr. John Rokesmith will please enter on his duties immediately.’ ”
“Well! Now, Noddy!” cried Mrs. Boffin, clapping her hands, “That is a good one!”
Mr. Boffin was no less delighted; indeed, in his own bosom, he regarded both the composition itself and the device that had given birth to it, as a very remarkable monument of human ingenuity.
“And I tell you, my deary,” said Mrs. Boffin, “that if you don’t close with Mr. Rokesmith now at once, and if you ever go a muddling yourself again with things never meant nor made for you, you’ll have an apoplexy—besides iron-moulding your linen—and you’ll break my heart.”
Mr. Boffin embraced his spouse for these words of wisdom, and then, congratulating John Rokesmith on the brilliancy of his achievements, gave him his hand in pledge of their new relations. So did Mrs. Boffin.
“Now,” said Mr. Boffin, who, in his frankness, felt that it did not become him to have a gentleman in his employment five minutes, without reposing some confidence in him, “you must be let a little more into our affairs, Rokesmith. I mentioned to you, when I made your acquaintance, or I might better say when you made mine, that Mrs. Boffin’s inclinations was setting in the way of Fashion, but that I didn’t know how fashionable we might or might not grow. Well! Mrs. Boffin has carried the day, and we’re going in neck and crop for Fashion.”
“I rather inferred that, sir,” replied John Rokesmith, “from the scale on which your new establishment is to be maintained.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Boffin, “it’s to be a spanker. The fact is, my literary man named to me that a house with which he is, as I may say, connected—in which he has an interest—”
“As property?” inquired John Rokesmith.
“Why no,” said Mr. Boffin, “not exactly that; a sort of a family tie.”
“Association?” the Secretary suggested.
“Ah!” said Mr. Boffin. “Perhaps. Anyhow, he named to me that the house had a board up, ‘This Eminently Aristocratic Mansion to be let or sold.’ Me and Mrs. Boffin went to look at it, and finding it beyond a doubt eminently aristocratic (though a trifle high and dull, which after all may be part of the same thing) took it. My literary man was so friendly as to drop into a charming piece of poetry on that occasion, in which he complimented Mrs. Boffin on coming into possession of—how did it go, my dear?”
Mrs. Boffin replied:
“ ‘The gay, the gay and festive scene,
The halls, the halls of dazzling light.’ ”
“That’s it! And it was made neater by there really being two halls in the house, a front ’un and a back ’un, besides the servants.” He likewise dropped into a very pretty piece of poetry to be sure, respecting the extent to which he would be willing to put himself out of the way to bring Mrs. Boffin round, in case she should ever get low in her spirits in the house. Mrs. Boffin has a wonderful memory. Will you repeat it, my dear?”
Mrs. Boffin complied, by reciting the verses in which this obliging offer had been made, exactly as she had received them.
“ ‘I’ll tell thee how the maiden wept, Mrs. Boffin,
When her true love was slain ma’am,
And how her broken spirit slept, Mrs. Boffin,
And never woke again ma’am.
I’ll tell thee (if agreeable to Mr. Boffin) how the steed drew nigh,
And left his lord afar;
And if my tale (which I hope Mr. Boffin might excuse) should make you sigh,
I’ll strike the light guitar.’ ”
“Correct to the letter!” said Mr. Boffin. “And I consider that the poetry brings us both in, in a beautiful manner.”
The effect of the poem on the Secretary being evidently to astonish him, Mr. Boffin was confirmed in his high opinion of it, and was greatly pleased.
“Now, you see, Rokesmith,” he went on, “a literary man—with a wooden leg—is liable to jealousy. I shall therefore cast about for comfortable ways and means of not calling up Wegg’s jealousy,
