Mrs. Penniman, faltering and wavering, declared Catherine was very
stupid, put off the great scene, as she would have called it, from
day to day, and wandered about very uncomfortably, primed, to
repletion, with her apology, but unable to bring it to the light.
Morris's own scenes were very small ones just now; but even these
were beyond his strength. He made his visits as brief as possible,
and while he sat with his mistress, found terribly little to talk
about. She was waiting for him, in vulgar parlance, to name the day;
and so long as he was unprepared to be explicit on this point it
seemed a mockery to pretend to talk about matters more abstract. She
had no airs and no arts; she never attempted to disguise her
expectancy. She was waiting on his good pleasure, and would wait
modestly and patiently; his hanging back at this supreme time might
appear strange, but of course he must have a good reason for it.
Catherine would have made a wife of the gentle old-fashioned pattern-
-regarding reasons as favours and windfalls, but no more expecting
one every day than she would have expected a bouquet of camellias.
During the period of her engagement, however, a young lady even of
the most slender pretensions counts upon more bouquets than at other
times; and there was a want of perfume in the air at this moment
which at last excited the girl's alarm.
"Are you sick?" she asked of Morris.
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