“Then that is delightful; you shall come home with me.”
“With you? Do you mean it?”
“Of course I mean it. I am not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean. I should consider such conduct a breach of truth. Do you imagine for a moment that I am a liar; I, who wish to cultivate all the sacred virtues, to stoop to a lie. When I ask you to come home with me, I wish to have you. I want a friend to keep me company, an intelligent friend. You shall stay with me for a week at least. I don’t believe in that failure of yours. If you did not take honors, you ought to have taken them. That brow and those eyes were not given you for nothing. By the way, did I ever mention to you—no, I don’t think I did—that I am starting a little hostel of my own, that I am saving money for it. I do not know the exact sum that I have saved, but it is not very far from a hundred pounds. You are one of the girls I should like to live with me there. You are just the sort to fling aside every weight, and devote yourself heart and soul to the acquiring of glorious knowledge.”
“I have felt like that now and then,” said Annie; “but somehow the motive has gone. It is unfair, absolutely unfair, for me to come to you on false pretenses.”
“Oh, whether you are clever or not, you look as if you wanted a week’s rest. I am very happy to-day—what occurred has given me—I cannot exactly tell you what, but a wonderful feeling. I am in the humor to do a good deed, and you are the person who wants it done to. You want rest and good nourishment and peace. You have been tossed about in a sore battle. I do not know where, and I do not know how; but the proof lies in the queer, desolate expression of your face. My home is comfortable, and mother always does exactly what I like; so come at once.”
“I thank you from my heart, and I will come,” said Annie. “It is a great boon to me; but I must first go out with Leslie Gilroy.”
“Off with you then at once. I don’t want to pry into any secrets; but, Leslie, when you have done with her, bring her or send her back to me. You know the old address in Maida Vale. Good-by for the present.”
[CHAPTER XXVII—TELL ME THE TRUTH, LESLIE.]
“This is a wonderful thing for me,” said Annie as she stood up. Leslie turned and looked at her without replying. “I mean that my fourteen shillings can now last me nearly another week. By that time, if I get this situation, I shall have saved money and be quite independent. Leslie, you cannot imagine what a load will be lifted from my mind, and you will have done it. I shall thank you to the longest day I live.”
“But I don’t want to do it,” said Leslie; “you don’t know how dreadful I feel. Pray, don’t say any more to me. I am not good now, not at all. I want to be away by myself, to fight this thing out to the bitter end. But here we are. I’ll do my best for you, Annie, only for Heaven’s sake don’t thank me.”