“I love you! I adore you! I worship you!” poured forth young Grindley, forgetful of all Miss Appleyard had ever told him concerning the folly of tautology.
“You had no right,” said Miss Appleyard.
“I couldn’t help it,” pleaded young Grindley. “And that isn’t the worst.”
Miss Appleyard paled visibly. For a grocer’s assistant to dare to fall in love with her, especially after all the trouble she had taken with him! What could be worse?
“I’m not a grocer,” continued young Grindley, deeply conscious of crime. “I mean, not a real grocer.”
And Grindley junior then and there made a clean breast of the whole sad, terrible tale of shameless deceit, practised by the greatest villain the world had ever produced, upon the noblest and most beautiful maiden that ever turned grim London town into a fairy city of enchanted ways.
Not at first could Miss Appleyard entirely grasp it; not till hours later, when she sat alone in her own room, where, fortunately for himself, Grindley junior was not, did the whole force and meaning of the thing come home to her. It was a large room, taking up half of the top story of the big Georgian house in Nevill’s Court; but even as it was, Miss Appleyard felt cramped.
“For a year—for nearly a whole year,” said Miss Appleyard, addressing the bust of William Shakespeare, “have I been slaving my life out, teaching him elementary Latin and the first five books of Euclid!”
As it has been remarked, it was fortunate for Grindley junior he was out of reach. The bust of William Shakespeare maintained its irritating aspect of benign philosophy.
“I suppose I should,” mused Miss Appleyard, “if he had told me at first—as he ought to have told me—of course I should naturally have had nothing more to do with him. I suppose,” mused Miss Appleyard, “a man in love, if he is really in love, doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. I suppose one ought to make allowances. But, oh! when I think of it—”