So, when tomorrow came, I went to my guardian after breakfast, in the room that was our town-substitute for the growlery, and told him that I had it in trust to tell him something.
“Well, little woman,” said he, shutting up his book, “if you have accepted the trust, there can be no harm in it.”
“I hope not, guardian,” said I. “I can guarantee that there is no secrecy in it. For it only happened yesterday.”
“Aye? And what is it, Esther?”
“Guardian,” said I, “you remember the happy night when first we came down to Bleak House? When Ada was singing in the dark room?”
I wished to call to his remembrance the look he had given me then. Unless I am much mistaken, I saw that I did so.
“Because—” said I with a little hesitation.
“Yes, my dear!” said he. “Don’t hurry.”
“Because,” said I, “Ada and Richard have fallen in love. And have told each other so.”
“Already!” cried my guardian, quite astonished.
“Yes!” said I. “And to tell you the truth, guardian, I rather expected it.”
“The deuce you did!” said he.
He sat considering for a minute or two, with his smile, at once so handsome and so kind, upon his changing face, and then requested me to let them know that he wished to see them. When they came, he encircled Ada with one arm in his fatherly way and addressed himself to Richard with a cheerful gravity.