The next time I called, Miss Tomkinson was sitting in state to receive me.

‘“Miss Tyrrell’s throat does not seem to make much progress. Do you understand the case, Mr Harrison, or should we have further advice? I think Mr Morgan would probably know more about it.”

‘I assured her it was the simplest thing in the world; that it always implied a little torpor in the constitution, and that we preferred working through the system, which of course was a slow process, and that the medicine the young lady was taking (iodide of iron) was sure to be successful, although the progress would not be rapid. She bent her head, and said, “It might be so; but she confessed she had more confidence in medicines which had some effect.”

‘She seemed to expect me to tell her something; but I had nothing to say, and accordingly I bade good-by. Somehow, Miss Tomkinson always managed to make me feel very small, by a succession of snubbings; and whenever I left her I had always to comfort myself under her contradictions by saying to myself, “Her saying it is so, does not make it so.” Or I invented good retorts which I might have made to her brusque speeches if I had but thought of them at the right time. But it was provoking that I had not had the presence of mind to recollect them just when they were wanted.

Chapter XIV

‘ON THE WHOLE, things went on smoothly. Mr Holden’s legacy came in just about this time; and I felt quite rich. Five hundred pounds would furnish the house, I thought, when Mrs Rose left and Sophy came. I was delighted, too, to imagine that Sophy perceived the difference of my manner to her from what it was to any one else, and that she was embarrassed and shy in consequence, but not displeased with me for it. All was so flourishing that I went about on wings instead of feet. We were very busy, without having anxious cares. My legacy was paid into Mr Bullock’s hands, who united a little banking business to his profession of law. In return for his advice about investments (which I never meant to take, having a more charming, if less profitable, mode in my head), I went pretty frequently to teach him his agricultural chemistry. I was so happy in Sophy’s blushes that I was universally benevolent, and desirous of giving pleasure to every one. I went, at Mrs Bullock’s general invitation, to dinner there one day unexpectedly; but there was such a fuss of ill-concealed preparation consequent upon my coming, that I never went again. Her little boy came in, with an audibly given message from the cook, to ask –

‘“If this was the gentleman as she was to send in the best dinner-service and dessert for?”

‘I looked deaf, but determined never to go again.

‘Miss Bullock and I, meanwhile, became rather friendly. We found out that we mutually disliked each other; and were contented with the discovery. If people are worth anything, this sort of non-liking is a very good beginning of friendship. Every good quality is revealed naturally and slowly, and is a pleasant surprise. I found out that Miss Bullock was sensible, and even sweet-tempered, when not irritated by her step-mother’s endeavours to show her off. But she would sulk for hours after Mrs Bullock’s offensive praise of her good points. And I never saw such a black passion as she went into when she suddenly came into the room when Mrs Bullock was telling me of all the offers she had had.

‘My legacy made me feel up to extravagance. I scoured the country for a glorious nosegay of camellias, which I sent to Sophy on Valentine’s-day. I durst not add a line, but I wished the flowers could speak, and tell her how I loved her.

‘I called on Miss Tyrrell that day. Miss Caroline was more simpering and affected than ever; and full of allusions to the day.

‘“Do you affix much sincerity of meaning to the little gallantries of this day, Mr Harrison?” asked she, in a languishing tone. I thought of my camellias, and how my heart had gone with them into Sophy’s keeping; and I told her I thought one might often take advantage of such a time to hint at feelings one dared not fully express.

‘I remembered afterwards the forced display she made, after Miss Tyrrell left the room, of a valentine. But I took no notice at the time; my head was full of Sophy.

‘It was on that very day that John Brouncker, the gardener to all of us who had small gardens to keep in order, fell down and injured his wrist severely (I don’t give you the details of the case, because they would not interest you, being too technical; if you’ve any curiosity, you will find them in the Lancet of August in that year). We all liked John, and this accident was felt like a town’s misfortune. The gardens, too, just wanted doing up. Both Mr Morgan and I went directly to him. It was a very awkward case, and his wife and children were crying sadly.