... as regards the laboring classes, the half-savage manners of the last generation have been exchanged for a deep and almost universally pervading sensual-ity ...

—Report from’the Mining Districts (1850)

Or in the light of deeper eyes Is matter for a flying smile.

—Tennyson, In Memoriam (1850)

When the next morning came and Charles took up his un-gentle probing of Sam’s Cockney heart, he was not in fact betraying Ernestina, whatever may have been the case with Mrs. Poulteney. They had left shortly following the exchange described above, and Ernestina had been very silent on the walk downhill to Broad Street. Once there she had seen to it that she was left alone with Charles; and no sooner had the door shut on her aunt’s back than she burst into tears (without the usual preliminary self-accusations) and threw herself into his arms. It was the first disagreement that had ever darkened their love, and it horrified her: that her sweet gentle Charles should be snubbed by a horrid old woman, and all because of a fit of pique on her part. When he had dutifully patted her back and dried her eyes, she said as much. Charles stole a kiss on each wet eyelid as a revenge, and forthwith forgave her.

“And my sweet, silly Tina, why should we deny to others what has made us both so happy? What if this wicked maid and my rascal Sam should fall in love? Are we to throw stones?”

She smiled up at him from her chair. “This is what comes of trying to behave like a grown-up.”

He knelt beside her and took her hand. “Sweet child. You will always be that to me.” She bent her head to kiss his hand, and he in turn kissed the top of her hair.

She murmured, “Eighty-eight days. I cannot bear the thought.”

“Let us elope. And go to Paris.”

“Charles . . . what wickedness!”

She raised her head, and he kissed her on the lips. She sank back against the corner of the chair, dewy-eyed, blush-ing, her heart beating so fast that she thought she would faint; too frail for such sudden changes of emotion. He retained her hand, and pressed it playfully.

“If the worthy Mrs. P. could see us now?”

She covered her face with her hands, and began to laugh, choked giggles that communicated themselves to Charles and forced him to get to his feet and go to the window, and pretend to be dignified—but he could not help looking back, and caught her eyes between her fingers. There were more choked sounds in the silent room. To both came the same insight: the wonderful new freedoms their age brought, how wonderful it was to be thoroughly modern young people, with a thoroughly modern sense of humor, a millennium away from . . .

“Oh Charles ... oh Charles ... do you remember the Early Cretaceous lady?”

That set them off again; and thoroughly mystified poor Mrs. Tranter, who had been on hot coals outside, sensing that a quarrel must be taking place. She at last plucked up courage to enter, to see if she could mend. Tina, still laugh-ing, ran to her at the door and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Dear, dear aunt. You are not too fond. I am a horrid, spoiled child. And I do not want my green walking dress. May I give it to Mary?”

Thus it was that later that same day Ernestina figured, and sincerely, in Mary’s prayers. I doubt if they were heard, for instead of getting straight into bed after she had risen from her knees, as all good prayer-makers should, Mary could not resist trying the green dress on one last time. She had only a candle’s light to see by, but candlelight never did badly by any woman. That cloud of falling golden hair, that vivacious green, those trembling shadows, that shy, delighted, self-surprised face ..............