character, which would have been exceedingly discordant to his active,
energetic nature. But, when he found out the punctuality with which
his wishes were attended to, and her work was done; when he was called
in the morning at the very stroke of the clock, his shaving-water
scalding hot, his fire bright, his coffee made exactly as his peculiar
fancy dictated (for he was a man who had his theory about
everything based upon what he knew of science, and often perfectly
original)--then he began to think: not that Alice had any particular
merit, but that he had got into remarkably good lodgings; his
restlessness wore away, and he began to consider himself as almost
settled for life in them.

Mr Openshaw had been too busy, all his days, to be introspective. He
did not know that he had any tenderness in his nature; and if he had
become conscious of its abstract existence he would have considered it
as a manifestation of disease in some part of him. But he was decoyed
into pity unawares; and pity led on to tenderness. That little
helpless child--always carried about by one of the three busy women
of the house, or else patiently threading coloured beads in the chair
from which, by no effort of its own, could it ever move--the great
grave blue eyes, full of serious, not uncheerful, expression, giving
to the small delicate face a look beyond its years--the soft plaintive
voice dropping out but few words, so unlike the continual prattle of a
child--caught Mr Openshaw's attention in spite of himself. One day--he
half scorned himself for doing so--he cut short his dinner-hour to go
in search of some toy, which should take the place of those eternal
beads. I forget what he bought; but, when he gave the present (which
he took care to do in a short abrupt manner, and when no one was by
to see him), he was almost thrilled by the flash of delight that
came over that child's face, and he could not help, all through that