Jacob’s programme, for the remainder of the day, was carried out very nearly as he had planned it. The car was hired without difficulty, and the sensation created in the village shops by his arrival in it, his lavish orders and prompt payment, was ample and gratifying. Mrs. Harris alone seemed curiously unmoved when he confided to her the story of this great change in his circumstances. She who had been all kindness and sympathy in the days of his misfortune listened to the story of his newly arrived wealth with a striking absence of enthusiasm.
“You’ll be giving up your rooms now, I suppose?” she observed with a sigh. “Want to go and live in the West End of London, or some such place.”
Jacob extended his arm as far as possible around her ample waist.
“Mrs. Harris,” he said, “no one else in the world could have looked after me so well when I was poor. No one else shall look after me now that I am rich. If I leave here, you and Harris must come too, but I don’t think that I shall—not altogether. There are the roses, you see.”
“And what’s in that cardboard box?” she asked suspiciously.
“A black silk dress for you,” Jacob replied. “You’ll give me a kiss when you see it.”
“A black silk dress—for me?” Mrs. Harris faltered, her eyes agleam. “I don’t know what Harris will say!”
“There’s a bicycle at the station for him,” Jacob announced. “No more two-mile trudges to work, eh?”
Mrs. Harris sat down suddenly and raised her apron to her eyes. Jacob made his escape and crossed the road. It had seemed to him that he must have exhausted the whole gamut of emotions during the day, but there was still a moment’s revelation for him when the pale, shy, little woman whom he had known as his friend’s wife came running out to greet him with shining eyes and outstretched hands.
“Mr. Pratt!” she cried. “Is it all true?”