"It wasn't that," he began to explain, lingering and hesitating, so that she listened in a fever for footsteps on the stairs.
"Well, what then?"
"I should like to think over the matter you mentioned just now, and ... and ..."
"Well, and what?"
"And perhaps when it's dark I might ... carry the parcel away with me." And he rushed down the steps.
"So he had to swallow his pride, poor fellow!" she thought, as she looked after him full of pity.
The same evening she made a parcel of the things and sent them to him by post, with a sovereign and a thousand apologies. She wanted him to have a new hat, she said, and no trouble with regard to alterations.
A few days later, when he put in an appearance again at dinner, one would hardly have known him, he looked so smart and brushed-up. The suit fitted as if made for him, and though the dandy boots were too long, he had prevented them turning up at the toe by padding them with cotton wool. Even the scornful servant scanned him with a more friendly eye.
It was a pity he hadn't parted with his shock of hair and got his beard shaved off. You could almost have been seen in the street with him if he had. His cheeks had filled out wonderfully. His eyes, too, were better; thanks to the doctor to whom she had sent him almost by force. Gradually, too, his manners became less rough. He gave up bolting his food and putting his fingers into his mouth, and he acquired the art of drinking claret without flushing. And not only in externals, but mentally he began to reflect some of the tranquil well-being of his hospitable surroundings. His abuse became more discriminating, and he could even forgive people the unpardonable crime of being happy.
He displayed charming tact in refraining from inquiries as to Lilly's position. And she knew how to thank him for it. Though she avoided cross-examining him about his own affairs, she was able to piece together a picture of his scholastic failure from the remarks and self-upbraidings that he let fall.