Of course I didn't let her know my real name. I could
manage it very nicely, and you would never know anything about it; I
should remit you all the money you wanted, you needn't be afraid.'
Alice tried to assume a face of stony indignation, but as usual she
ended by breaking down and shedding tears. Then he told her that she
was getting plainer than ever, and that it all came of her perpetual
'water-works.'
Alice hit upon a brilliant idea. What if she endeavoured to make him
jealous? In spite of her entreaties, he never would take her to
town, though he saw that she was perishing for lack of amusement.
Suppose she made him believe that she had gone on her own account,
and at the invitation of someone whose name she would not divulge? I
believe she found the trick in one of her novels. The poor child
went to work most conscientiously. One morning when he came down to
breakfast she pretended to have been reading a letter, crushed an
old envelope into her pocket on his entering the room, and affected
confusion. He observed her.
'Had a letter?' he asked.
'Yes--no. Nothing of any importance.'
He smiled and applied himself to the ham, then left her in his
ordinary way, without a word of courtesy, and went to town. She had
asked him particularly when he should be back that night He named
the train, which reached Wimbledon a little after ten.
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