So Horace, who had always been friendly with Mrs Penkethman, grew
now more than ever friendly with Mrs Penkethman. And Mrs
Penkethman and Ella were inseparable. The few aristocrats left in
Bursley in September remarked that Horace knew what he was about,
as it was notorious that Ella had the most solid expectations. But
as a matter of fact Horace did not know what he was about, and he
never once thought of Ella's expectations. He was simply, as they
say in Bursley, knocked silly by Ella. He honestly imagined her to
be the wonderfullest woman on the earth's surface, with her dark
eyes and her expressive sympathetic gestures, and her alterations
of seriousness and gaiety. It astounded him that a girl of twenty-
one could have thought so deeply upon life as she had. The
inexplicable thing was that she looked up to HIM. She evidently
admired HIM. He wanted to tell her that she was quite wrong about
him, much too kind in her estimate of him--that really he was a
very ordinary man indeed. But another instinct prevented him from
thus undeceiving her.

And one Saturday afternoon, the season being late September,
Horace actually got those two women up to tea in his house and
garden. He had not dared to dream of such bliss. He had hesitated
long before asking them to come, and in asking them he had blushed
and stammered: the invitation had seemed to him to savour of
audacity. But, bless you! they had accepted with apparent ecstasy.
They gave him to think that they had genuinely wanted to come. And
they came extra-specially dressed--visions, lilies of the field.
And as the day was quite warm, tea was served in the garden, and
everybody admired the view; and there was no restraint, no
awkwardness. In particular Ella talked with an ease and a
distinction that enchanted Horace, and almost made him talk with