The poor man was cursed by the fatal desire of pleasing, and unconsciously threw an altogether unnecessary degree of empressement into his voice as he replied, "In the company I am at present, I should look forward to it, if it was a wilderness with a funeral in it."
"Oh dear me, Mr. Tweddle, that is a pretty speech!" said Ada, and she blushed in a manner which appalled the conscience-stricken hairdresser.
"There I go again," he thought remorsefully, "putting things in the poor girl's head—it ain't right. I'm making myself too pleasant!"
And then it struck him that it would be only prudent to make his position clearly understood, and, carefully lowering his voice, he began a speech with that excellent intention. "Miss Parkinson," he said huskily, "there's something I have to tell you about myself, very particular. Since I last enjoyed the pleasure of meeting with you my prospects have greatly altered, I am no longer——"
But she cut him short with a little gesture of entreaty. "Oh, not here, please, Mr. Tweddle," she said; "tell me about it in the gardens!"
"Very well," he said, relieved; "remind me when we get there—in case I forget, you know."
"Remind you!" cried Ada; "the idea, Mr. Tweddle! I certainly shan't do any such thing."
"She thinks I am going to propose to her!" he thought ruefully; "it will be a delicate business undeceiving her. I wish it was over and done with!"
It was quite dark by the time they had crossed the river by the ferry, and made their way up to the entrance to the pleasure gardens, imposing enough, with its white colonnade, its sphinxes, and lines of coloured lamps.
But no one else had crossed with them; and, as they stood at the turnstiles, all they could see of the grounds beyond seemed so dark and silent that they began to have involuntary misgivings. "I suppose," said Jauncy to the man at the ticket-hole, "the gardens are open—eh?"