She hung down her head, and said she believed she had found out my secret.
“Then only think how miserably I am situated. If I have any hope—oh, Mrs. Rose, do you think I have any hope—?”
She put the hand-screen still more before her face, and after some hesitation she said she thought “If I persevered—in time—I might have hope.” And then she suddenly got up, and left the room.
That afternoon I met Mr. Bullock in the street. My mind was so full of the affair with Miss Tomkinson that I should have passed him without notice, if he had not stopped me short, and said that he must speak to me; about my wonderful five hundred pounds, I supposed. But I did not care for that now.
“What is this I hear,” he said severely, “about your engagement with Mrs. Rose?”
“With Mrs. Rose!” said I, almost laughing, although my heart was heavy enough.
“Yes! with Mrs. Rose!” said he sternly.
“I’m not engaged to Mrs. Rose,” I replied. “There is some mistake.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” he answered, “very glad. It requires some explanation, however. Mrs. Rose has been congratulated, and has acknowledged the truth of the report. It is confirmed by many facts. The work-table you bought, confessing your intention of giving it to your future wife, is given to her. How do you account for these things, sir?”