‘But very few men are like that,’ I said. ‘He is giving up everything else for you; he is shutting himself out of the world for you; and you—what are you giving up for him?’
Ellen grew paler and paler as I spoke. ‘Giving up?’ she said aghast. ‘I—I would give up anything. But I have got nothing, except John,’ she added, with an uneasy little laugh. ‘And you say he is shutting himself out of the world. Oh, I know what you are thinking of—the kind of world one reads about in books, where gentlemen have clubs, and all that sort of thing. But these are only for you rich people. He is not giving up anything that I know of.’
‘What do the other young men do, Ellen? Every one has his own kind of world.’
‘The other young men!’ she cried indignant. ‘Now I see indeed you don’t know anything about him (how could you? you have never even seen him), when you compare John to the other clerks. John! Oh, yes, I suppose they go and amuse themselves; they go to the theatres, and all those wrong places. But you don’t suppose John would do that, even if I were not in existence! Why John! the fact is, you don’t know him; that is the whole affair.’
‘I humbly confess it,’ said I; ‘but it is not my fault. I should be very glad to know him, if I might.’
Ellen looked at me with a dazzled look of sudden happiness, as if this prospect of bliss was too much for her—which is always very flattering to the superior in such intercourse as existed between her and me. ‘Oh! would you?’ she said, with her heart in her mouth, and fixed her eyes eagerly upon me, as if with some project she did not like to unfold.
‘Certainly I should.’ Then, after a pause I said, ‘Could not you bring him to-morrow to tea?’
Ellen’s eyes sparkled. She gave a glance round upon the room, which was a great deal bigger and handsomer than the little parlour in Pleasant Place, taking in the pictures and the piano and myself in so many distinct perceptions, yet one look. Her face was so expressive that I recognized all these different details of her pleasure with the distinctest certainty. She wanted John to see it all, and to hear the piano, which was much better than her little piano at home; and also to behold how much at home she was, and how everybody liked her. Her eyes shone out upon me like two stars. And her big English ‘Oh!’ of delight had her whole breath in it, and left her speechless for the moment. ‘There is nothing in the world I would like so much,’ she cried at last: then paused, and, with a sobered tone, added, ‘If mother can spare me’—a little cloud coming over her face.
‘I am sure your mother will spare you. You never have any parties or amusements, my good little Ellen. You must tell her I will take no denial. You never go anywhere.’
‘Where should I go?’ said Ellen. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere, there is always so much to do at home. But for this once—And John would so like to come. He would like to thank you. He says, if you will not think him too bold, that you have been his friend for years.’