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room to welcome and kiss
him. Seven was his dinner-hour; he hardly ever dined alone; indeed, he
often dined from home four days out of seven, and when he had no
engagement to take him out he liked to have some one to keep him company:
Mr. Ness very often, Mr. Corbet along with him if he was in Hamley, a
stranger friend, or one of his clients. Sometimes, reluctantly, and when
he fancied he could not avoid the attention without giving offence, Mr.
Wilkins would ask Mr. Dunster, and then the two would always follow
Ellinor into the library at a very early hour, as if their subjects for
tete-a-tete
conversation were quite exhausted. With all his other
visitors, Mr. Wilkins sat long—yes, and yearly longer; with Mr. Ness,
because they became interested in each other's conversation; with some of
the others, because the wine was good, and the host hated to spare it.
    Mr. Corbet used to leave his tutor and Mr. Wilkins and saunter into the
library. There sat Ellinor and Miss Monro, each busy with their
embroidery. He would bring a stool to Ellinor's side, question and tease
her, interest her, and they would become entirely absorbed in each other,
Miss Monro's sense of propriety being entirely set at rest by the
consideration that Mr. Wilkins must know what he was about in allowing a
young man to become thus intimate with his daughter, who, after all, was
but a child.
    Mr. Corbet had lately fallen into the habit of walking up to Ford Bank
for
The Times
every day, near twelve o'clock, and lounging about in the
garden until one; not exactly with either Ellinor or Miss Monro, but
certainly far more at the beck and call of the one than of the other.
    Miss Monro used to think he would have been glad to stay and lunch at
their early dinner, but she never gave the invitation, and he could not
well stay without her expressed sanction. He told Ellinor all about his
mother and sisters, and their ways of going on, and spoke of them and of
his father as of people she was one day certain to know, and to know
intimately; and she did not question or doubt this view of things; she
simply acquiesced.
    He had some discussion with himself as to whether he should speak to her,
and so secure her promise to be his before returning to Cambridge or not.
He did not like the formality of an application to Mr. Wilkins, which
would, after all, have been the proper and straightforward course to
pursue with a girl of her age—she was barely sixteen. Not that he
anticipated any difficulty on Mr. Wilkins's part; his approval of the
intimacy which at their respective ages was pretty sure to lead to an
attachment, was made as evident as could be by actions without words. But
there would have to be reference to his own father, who had no notion of
the whole affair, and would be sure to treat it as a boyish fancy; as if
at twenty-one Ralph was not a man, as clear and deliberative in knowing
his own mind, as resolute as he ever would be in deciding upon the course
of exertion that should lead him to independence and fame, if such were
to be attained by clear intellect and a strong will.
    No; to Mr. Wilkins he would not speak for another year or two.
    But should he tell Ellinor in direct terms of his love—his intention to
marry her?
    Again he inclined to the more prudent course of silence. He was not
afraid of any change in his own inclinations: of them he was sure. But
he looked upon it in this way: If he made a regular declaration to her
she would be bound to tell it to her father. He should not respect her
or like her so much if she did not. And yet this course would lead to
all the conversations, and discussions, and references to his own father,
which made his own direct appeal to Mr. Wilkins appear a premature step
to him.
    Whereas he was as sure of Ellinor's love for him as if she had uttered
all the vows that women ever spoke; he knew even better than she did how
fully and entirely that innocent girlish heart was his own. He was too
proud to dread her