“You are home, then?” he said. There was something exalted in his voice, that at another time would have made her look up at him lovingly, as he expected to see her do now. But, instead, she answered coldly and without any words of greeting—
“Yes, Alfred, I am home.”
“What did you do in town?” She winked haughtily and did not speak. “What did you do?” he repeated.
“I did a great deal, and learned many things of which I will tell you when you have finished your dinner. It is quite ready—you will be good enough to go to it, Alfred.”
He looked at her searchingly, and felt a little uneasiness.
“Are you coming?” he asked, seeing that she did not move.
“No, I have dined; but I trust you will be satisfied with what I have provided for you,” she said coldly. Something in her manner forced him reluctantly to obey. He went into the dining-room; she shut the door that led into it and waited in the drawing-room. Jane came in after she had served the sole, and drew down the blinds and arranged the curtains and threw some wood on the fire.
“There is only one candle left,” she said, “till the two in the dining-room are done with.”
“It is quite sufficient; you can light it and put it on the table. As soon as you have finished waiting upon Mr. Wimple you will go upstairs and do what I have told you”—and she was left alone again. While she looked at the fire she could almost imagine Alfred Wimple eating his sole; she knew when it was finished; she listened while Jane entered and pushed his plate through the buttery-hatch; she heard the chicken arrive, and imagined Alfred Wimple solemnly carving it. Her heart beat faster as he went on towards the end of his feast; she was impatient for the crisis to begin. At last he rose from the table, opened the door, and stood looking at her curiously. She rose too and waited, facing him, on the rug.
“Did you bring a paper from town, Anne?” he asked, without a word of gratitude for his dainty dinner.