Upon the troubled disorder of Kipps’ table manners there had supervented a quietness, an unusual calm. For once in his life he had distinctly made up his mind on his own account. He listened no more to Revel. He put down his knife and fork and refused anything that followed. Coote regarded him with tactful concern and Helen flushed a little.
About half-past nine that night came a violent pull at the bell of Mrs. Bindon Botting, and a young man in a dress suit, a gibus and other marks of exalted social position stood without. Athwart his white expanse of breast lay a ruddy bar of patterned silk that gave him a singular distinction and minimised the glow of a few small stains of burgundy. His gibus was thrust back and exposed a disorder of hair that suggested a reckless desperation. He had, in fact, burnt his boats and refused to join the ladies. Coote, in the subsequent conversation, had protested quietly, “You’re going on all right, you know,” to which Kipps had answered he didn’t care a “Eng” about that, and so, after a brief tussle with Walshingham’s detaining arm, had got away. “I got something to do,” he said. “ ’Ome.” And here he was—panting an extraordinary resolve. The door opened, revealing the pleasantly furnished hall of Mrs. Bindon Botting, lit by rose-tinted lights, and in the centre of the picture, neat and pretty in black and white, stood Ann. At the sight of Kipps her colour vanished.
“Ann,” said Kipps, “I want to speak to you. I got something to say to you right away. See? I’m—”
“This ain’t the door to speak to me at,” said Ann.
“But, Ann! It’s something special.”
“You spoke enough,” said Ann.
“Ann!”
“Besides. That’s my door, down there. Basement. If I was caught talking at this door—!”
“But, Ann, I’m—”
“Basement after nine. Them’s my hours. I’m a servant and likely to keep one. If you’re calling here, what name please? But you got your friends and I got mine and you mustn’t go talking to me.”
“But, Ann, I want to ask you—”
Someone appeared in the hall behind Ann. “Not here,” said Ann. “Don’t know anyone of that name,” and incontinently slammed the door in his face.
“What was that, Ann?” said Mrs. Bindon Botting’s invalid Aunt.
“Ge’m a little intoxicated, Ma’am—asking for the wrong name, Ma’am.”
“What name did he want?” asked the lady, doubtfully.
“No name that we know, Ma’am,” said Ann, hustling along the hall towards the kitchen stairs.
“I hope you weren’t too short with him, Ann.”
“No shorter than he deserved, considering ’ow he be’aved,” said Ann, with her bosom heaving.
And Mrs. Bindon Botting’s invalid Aunt, perceiving suddenly that this call had some relation to Ann’s private and sentimental trouble, turned, after one moment of hesitating scrutiny, away.
She was an extremely sympathetic lady, was Mrs. Bindon Botting’s invalid Aunt; she took an interest in the servants, imposed piety, extorted confessions and followed human nature, blushing and lying defensively, to its reluctantly revealed recesses, but Ann’s sense of privacy was strong and her manner under drawing out and encouragement, sometimes even alarming. …
So the poor old lady went upstairs again.
The basement door opened and Kipps came into the kitchen. He was flushed and panting.
He struggled for speech.
“ ’Ere,” he said, and held out two half sixpences.
Ann stood behind the kitchen table—face pale and eyes round, and now—and it simplified Kipps very much—he could see she had indeed been crying.
“Well?” she said.
“Don’t you see?”
Ann moved her head slightly.
“I kep’ it all these years.”
“You kep’ it too long.”
His mouth closed and his flush died away. He looked at her. The amulet, it seemed, had failed to work.
“Ann!” he said.
“Well?”
“Ann.”
The conversation still hung fire.
“Ann,” he said, made a movement with his hands that suggested appeal, and advanced a step.
Ann shook her head more defiantly, and became defensive.
“Look here, Ann,” said Kipps. “I been a fool.”
They stared into each other’s miserable eyes.
“Ann,” he said. “I want to marry you.”
Ann clutched the table edge. “You can’t,” she said faintly.
He made as if to approach her around the table, and she took a step that restored their distance.
“I must,” he said.
“You can’t.”
“I must. You got to marry me, Ann.”
“You can’t go marrying everybody. You got to marry ’er.”
“I shan’t.”
Ann shook her head. “You’re engaged to that girl. Lady, rather. You can’t be engaged to me.”
“I don’t want to be engaged to you. I been engaged. I want to be married to you. See? Rightaway.”
Ann turned a shade paler. “But what d’you mean?” she asked.
“Come right off to London and marry me. Now.”
“What d’you mean?”
Kipps became extremely lucid and earnest.
“I mean come right off and marry me now before anyone else can. See?”
“In London?”
“In London.”
They stared at one another again. They took things for granted in the most amazing way.
“I couldn’t,” said Ann. “For one thing my month’s not up for mor’n free weeks yet.”
They hung before that for a moment as though it was insurmountable.
“Look ’ere, Ann! Arst to go. Arst to go!”
“She wouldn’t,” said Ann.
“Then come without arsting,” said Kipps.
“She’s keep my box—”
“She won’t.”
“She will.”
“She won’t.”
“You don’t know ’er.”
“Well, desh’er—let’er! Let’er! Who cares? I’ll buy you a ’undred boxes if you’ll come.”
“It wouldn’t be right towards Her.”
“It isn’t Her you got to think about, Ann. It’s me.”
“And you ’aven’t treated me properly,” she said. “You ’aven’t treated me properly, Artie. You didn’t ought to ’ave—”
“I didn’t say I ’ad,” he interrupted, “did I, Ann?” he appealed. “I didn’t come to arguefy. I’m all wrong. I never said I wasn’t. It’s yes or no. Me or not. … I been a fool. There! See? I been a fool. Ain’t that enough? I got myself all tied up with everyone and made a fool of myself all around. …”
He pleaded, “It isn’t as if we didn’t care for one another, Ann.”
She seemed impassive and he resumed his discourse.
“I thought I wasn’t likely ever to see you again, Ann. I reely did. It isn’t as though I was seein’ you all the time. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I went and be’aved like a fool—jest
