It would be tedious to follow the affair in detail. Suffice it to say that at the end of three months Henry Brown found himself sincerely in love. He had not made a formal offer as yet, fearing that the lady's heart was not sufficiently intrigué. He was immensely satisfied with the change in his life and new comradeship, which he hoped would develop into something warmer. But, afraid of being too precipitate, he contented himself with making her presents of flowers, chocolates, or an occasional piece of jewelry of the Mizpah type. He trusted that his personality, generous handling of the case, and time ("Giving her rope enough to hang herself" was his well-meant but unfortunate metaphor) would dispose her to favor his suit. The lady appeared perfectly content with the situation; she accepted his gifts with careless thanks and a charming smile, enjoyed the promenades, but was sedulous to keep him away from a definite statement or even a plain-spoken hint of his feelings. Was she a designing creature who wished to get as much as she could from him before saying "No"? Or did a nobler emotion possess her? Was she judiciously probing his character and sounding the depths of her own feelings?
However this may have been, there is no doubt that both were content with the present. And on a night in June, some three weeks before the events of the last chapter, Henry Brown might have been seen seated opposite his friend in a cheap Soho restaurant. They had just finished supper, and both were smoking. To be honest, Mr. Brown did not altogether approve of the cigarette, but he had never dared to object. "Besides," he thought tolerantly, "these foreigners.... But what I wonder is, when they marry do they take to a pipe? If so, good lord!..." His distress vanished as he looked again upon her: she was too pretty to disapprove of. "A bit of Orl right," he reflected; "if only I dared ask her and she said 'Yes.'"
The time for separation came at last, and Mr. Brown sighed as he helped her put on her coat. On the steps of the restaurant they paused, for it was raining. "You must have a cab," he said decisively; and then, hesitating, "I wish you would let me see you home for once."
She glanced up.
"For this once, just a little way."
Her partial acquiescence surprised him, for hitherto he had never been permitted to escort her home in a cab. As a hansom drove up in answer to the whistle, he wondered if it might be taken as a sign. With bounding pulses he thought, "Shall I risk it and ask her?" And then, with a return of sanity, "No; better wait and not spoil it." He handed her in carefully, stepped in beside her, and asked what address he should give. "Oh, Trafalgar Square," she replied carelessly, "and then St. Paul's if necessary."
He obeyed, wondering what she could mean.
The cab had scarcely started before she turned to him and said demurely, "You must think this strange—immodest, almost. But I have a reason. First of all, I wish to thank you for your many kindnesses."
She paused, and he was understood to murmur, "Not at all. An honor." She continued:
"But there is a question I must ask, and I beg a truthful answer. Why have you so befriended a poor and humble girl like myself?"