"I really wish he had stayed away," she said to her aunt as they were getting ready for dinner.
"Nonsense, Caroline; why should he have stayed away? Why should you expect him to stay away? Had he stayed away, you would have been the first to grumble. Don't be missish, my dear."
"Missish! Upon my word, aunt Mary, you are becoming severe. What I mean is, that I don't think he cares so very much for me; and on the whole, I am not—not quite sure, whether—well, I won't say anything more; only it does seem to me that you are much more in love with him than I am."
Bertram came to dinner; and so also did one of the Littlebath curates, a very energetic young man, but who had not yet achieved above one or two pairs of worked slippers and a kettle-holder. Greater things, however, were no doubt in store for him if he would remain true to his mission. Aunt Mary had intended to ask no one; but Caroline had declared that it was out of the question to expect that Mr. Bertram should drink his wine by himself.
The whole evening was dull enough, and the work of disenchantment on Caroline's part was nearly accomplished; but Bertram, a few minutes before he went away, as the curate was expatiating to Miss Baker on the excellence of his rector's last sermon, found an occasion to say one word.
"Miss Waddington, if I call to-morrow, early after breakfast, will you see me?" Miss Waddington looked as though there were nothing in the proposition to ruffle her serenity, and said that she would. George's words had been tame enough, but there had been something in the fire of his eye that at last reminded her of Jerusalem.
On the next morning, punctually at ten, his knock was heard at the door. Caroline had at first persisted that her aunt should not absent herself; but even Miss Baker would not obey such an injunction as this.
"How do you expect that the poor young man is to behave?" she had said. "I do not much care how he behaves," Caroline had replied. But, nevertheless, she did care.
She was therefore sitting alone when Bertram entered the room. He walked up to her and took her hand, and as he did so he seemed to be altogether a different man from that of yesterday. There was purpose enough in his countenance now, and a purpose, apparently, which he had an intention of pursuing with some energy.
"Miss Waddington," he said, still holding her hand; "Caroline! Or am I to apologize for calling you so? or is the privilege to be my own?" and then, still holding her hand, he stood as though expectant of an answer that should settle the affair at once.