“I think so,” said Edwin, with an appearance of indecision. “I may as well.”
It was the first time that there had ever been question of him visiting a private house, except his aunt’s, at night. To him the moment marked an epoch, the inception of freedom; but the phlegmatic Maggie showed no sign of excitement—(“Clara would have gone into a fit!” he reflected)—and his father only asked a casual question about Charlie.
Volume Two--Chapter Seven.
Lane End House.
Here was another of those impressive square halls, on the other side of the suddenly opened door of Lane End House. But Edwin was now getting accustomed to square halls. Nevertheless he quaked as he stood on the threshold. An absurd young man! He wondered whether he would ever experience the sensation of feeling authentically grown-up. Behind him in the summer twilight lay the large oval lawn, and the gates which once had doubtless marked the end of Manor Lane—now Oak Street. And actually he had an impulse to rush back upon his steps, and bring on himself eternal shame. The servant, however, primly held him with her eyes alone, and he submitted to her sway.
“Mr Charles in?” he inquired glumly, affecting nonchalance.
The servant bowed her head with a certain condescending deference, as who should say: “Do not let us pretend that they are not expecting you.”
A door to the right opened. Janet was revealed, and, behind her, Charlie. Both were laughing. There was a sound of a piano. As soon as Charlie caught sight of Edwin he exclaimed to Janet—