Gower.

'I'm her servant. I'd rather serve her than have a fortune.'

'You were born with a fortune one would like to have a nibble at, Madge.'

'I can't lay hand on it, then.'

'It's the capacity for giving, my dear.'

'Please, Mr. Gower, don't say that; you'll make me cry. He keeps his
wife so poor she hasn't a shilling of her own; she wearies about her
brother; she can't help. He can spend hundreds on my Sally for having
been good to her, in our small way--it's a fairy tale; and he won't hear
of money for his wife, except that she's never to want for anything it
can buy.'

'You give what it can't buy.'

'Me. I'm "a pugilist's wench"--I've heard myself called. She was the
first who gave me a lift; never mind me. Have you come to take her away?
She'd trust herself and the child to you.'

'Take her?--reason with her as to the best we can do. He holds off from
a meeting just now. I fancy he's wearing round to it. His keeping his
wife without money passes comprehension. After serving him for a few
months, I had a store invested to support me for years--as much as I need
before I join the ranks of the pen. I was at my reading and writing and
drowsing, and down he rushes: I 'm in harness again. I can't say it's
dead waste of time; besides I pick up an independence for the days ahead.