Even Amelius saw that it was impossible to take her out in the streets with him in broad daylight, dressed as she was then. “No, no,” he said, “wait here till you get your new things. I won’t be half an hour gone. Lock yourself in if you’re afraid, and open the door to nobody till I come back!”
Sally hesitated; she began to look frightened.
“Think of the new dress, and the pretty bonnet,” suggested Amelius, speaking unconsciously in the tone in which he might have promised a toy to a child.
He had taken the right way with her. Her face brightened again. “I’ll do anything you tell me,” she said.
He put the key in her hand, and was out in the street directly.
Amelius possessed one valuable moral quality which is exceedingly rare among Englishmen. He was not in the least ashamed of putting himself in a ridiculous position, when he was conscious that his own motives justified him. The smiling and tittering of the shop-women, when he stated the nature of his errand, and produced his two pieces of string, failed to annoy him in the smallest degree. He laughed too. “Funny, isn’t it,” he said, “a man like me buying gowns and the rest of it? She can’t come herself—and you’ll advise me, like good creatures, won’t you?” They advised their handsome young customer to such good purpose, that he was in possession of a gray walking costume, a black cloth jacket, a plain lavender-coloured bonnet, a pair of black gloves, and a paper of pins, in little more than ten minutes’ time. The nearest trunk-maker supplied a travelling-box to hold all these treasures; and a passing cab took Amelius back to his lodgings, just as the half-hour was out. But one event had happened during his absence. The landlady had knocked at the door, had called through it in a terrible voice, “Half an hour more!” and had retired again without waiting for an answer.
Amelius carried the box into the bedroom. “Be as quick as you can, Sally,” he said—and left her alone, to enjoy the full rapture of discovering the new clothes.
When she opened the door and showed herself, the change was so wonderful that Amelius was literally unable to speak to her. Joy flushed her pale cheeks, and diffused its tender radiance over her pure blue eyes. A more charming little creature, in that momentary transfiguration of pride and delight, no man’s eyes ever looked on. She ran across the room to Amelius, and threw her arms round his neck. “Let me be your servant!” she cried; “I want to live with you all my life. Jump me up! I’m wild—I want to fly through the window.” She caught sight of herself in the looking-glass, and suddenly became composed and serious. “Oh,” she said, with the quaintest mixture of awe and astonishment, “was there ever such another bonnet as this? Do look at it—do please look at it!”
Amelius good-naturedly approached to look at it. At the same moment the sitting-room door was opened, without any preliminary ceremony of knocking—and Rufus walked into the room. “It’s half after ten,” he said, “and the breakfast is spoiling as fast as it can.”
Before Amelius could make his excuses for having completely forgotten his engagement, Rufus discovered Sally. No woman, young or old, high in rank or low in rank, ever found the New Englander unprepared with his own characteristic acknowledgment of the debt of courtesy which he owed to the sex. With his customary vast strides, he marched up to Sally and insisted on shaking hands with her. “How do you find yourself, miss? I take pleasure in making your acquaintance.” The girl turned to Amelius with wide-eyed wonder and doubt. “Go into the next room, Sally, for a minute or two,” he said. “This gentleman is a friend of mine, and I have something to say to him.”