Harriet Smales had heard with unconcealed pleasure of his leaving
the shop and taking lodgings of his own. She had been anxious to
come and see the rooms, and, though the following Sunday was
appointed for her visit, she could not wait so long, but, to her
cousin's surprise, presented herself at the house one evening, and
was announced by the landlady, who looked suspicious. Julian, with
some nervousness, hastened to explain that the visitor was a
relative, which did not in the least alter his landlady's
preconceived ideas. Harriet sat down and looked about her with a
sigh of satisfaction. If she could but have such a home! Girls had
no chance of getting on as men did. If only her father could have
lived, things would have been different. Now she was thrown on the
world, and had to depend upon her own hard work. Then she gave way
to an hysterical sob, and Julian--who felt sure that the landlady
was listening at the door--could only beg her nervously not to be
so down-hearted.
"Whatever success I have," he said to her, "you will share it."
"If I thought so!" she sighed, looking down at the floor, and moving
the point of her umbrella up and down. Harriet had saturated her
mind with the fiction of penny weeklies, and owed to this training
all manner of awkward affectations which she took to be the most
becoming manifestations of a susceptible heart.
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