One Monday evening, John being tired, was resting in the corner of the sofa. The silence had lasted a long time. Ellen thought so; and standing near, she by-and-by put her hand gently into one of his, which was thoughtfully passing through the locks of his hair. Her hand was clasped immediately, and, quitting his abstracted look, he asked what she had been doing that day. Ellen's thoughts went back to toes of stockings and a long rent in her dress; she merely answered, smiling, that she had been busy.
"Too busy, I'm afraid. Come round here, and sit down. What have you been busy about?"
Ellen never thought of trying to evade a question of his. She coloured and hesitated. He did not press it any further.
"Mr. John," said Ellen, when the silence seemed to have set in again "there is something I have been wanting to ask you this great while "
"Why hasn't it been asked this great while?"
"I didn't quite like to; I didn't know what you would say to it."
"I am sorry I am at all terrible to you, Ellie."
"Why, you are not!" said Ellen, laughing "how you talk! but
I don't much like to ask people things."
"I don't know about that," said he, smiling; "my memory rather seems to say that you ask things pretty often."
"Ah, yes those things; but I mean, I don't; like to ask things when I am not quite sure how people will like it."