I waited grimly, like a culprit for the jury. When she came in and saw, as I suppose, my woebegone face, I read hope in her manner.
“I got your note, Jones,” said she.
“Oh! I say, Miss Steele, I’m really frightfully sorry. I know it was a caddish thing to do, especially when you had been so kind. Look here, I did all those sums myself, without help; and here’s another batch I’ve done since; and—and—” (here I resolved to play a trump card) “and I got this black eye sticking up for you.”
That settled it. She smiled once more and said, “Well, Jones, I’ll say no more about it this once. I had made up my mind it was no use our going on together; but I’ll try, if you will.”
“Try—I’ll kill myself working,” said I, “to make up.”
“That wouldn’t do much good,” said she; “but I’ll try to forget all this ever happened, and we’ll go on just where we left off.”
“That was page 72,” said I eagerly; “and, I say, Miss Steele, you remember my telling you about Tempest, and Dicky Brown, you know; well—”
“Is that on page 72, or is it something which we can talk about when work is done?”
So I got my chance once again, and this time I stuck to it.
The nearer the time came, the more desperately we worked. Sometimes Miss Steele had positively to hunt me out for a walk, or, if I would not go alone, to drag me along with her to some place where, regardless of our possible detection by Evans and his friends, we could combine fresh air and education.