Chapter 4: Mr. Ely Wooes

The interview between Mr. Ely and the object of his heart’s devotion was not so solemn as it might have been. Possibly that was in a measure owing to what had gone before. But it must be owned that Miss Truscott’s mood was hardly attuned to the occasion. We must also, at the same time, allow that Mr. Ely’s demeanour was hardly that of the ideal wooer.

“Your aunt seems to have a nice idea of business! I’ve heard a few things, but she beats all! I thought she was getting at me, upon my word I did!”

This was scarcely the remark with which to open a tender interview. Miss Truscott said nothing. She was seated in a low garden-chair, hatless, her little feet peeping from under the hem of her summer gown. She seemed sufficiently cool just then, but her silence did not appear to be altogether to Mr. Ely’s liking. He himself did not seem to be as cool as he might have been.

“I believe, Miss Truscott, that Mr. Ash has told you what’s brought me here.”

Mr. Ely’s tone seemed even waspish--not loverlike at all.

“Indeed!” Miss Truscott just parted her lips and let the word drop out, that was all.

“May I ask what I am to understand by that?”

Just then a fat white dog, of the doormat species, appeared on the top of the steps. Miss Truscott addressed this animal--

“Pompey! Pompey! Good dog! Come here!”

The “good dog” referred to slowly waddled across the grass, and on reaching Miss Truscott’s chair was raised to the seat of honour upon that lady’s knee.

“Are you interested in dogs, Mr. Ely? If so, I am sure you must like Pompey. He generally bites strangers at first, but perhaps after a time he won’t bite you!”

“I’ll take care he doesn’t get a chance--either first or last.”

“Why not? He bit a piece of cloth out of the Curate’s trousers the other day, but Mr. Staines says that he doesn’t think his teeth quite met in the calf of his leg.”

Mr. Ely gasped. His temperature seemed rapidly to increase.

“I did not come here to talk about dogs: and you’ll excuse my mentioning that you have not yet informed me as to whether Mr. Ash has told you what I did come for.”

“Let me see!” Miss Truscott took out her guardian’s letter and referred to it before Mr. Ely’s distended eyes. “Hum--hum--Pompey, lie down! There, now Pompey has torn it all to bits!” As indeed the animal had, and was now chewing some of the fragments as though they were a sort of supplementary meal. “What shall I do? Pompey has the most extraordinary taste. It runs in the family, I think. Do you know that his mother once ate nearly the whole of a pair of my old shoes?”

Mr. Ely wiped his brow. He was becoming very warm indeed. He seated himself in another garden chair. For a moment he contemplated drawing it closer to Miss Truscott’s side, but the thought of Pompey and his extraordinary taste--which ran in his family--induced him to refrain.