“She can do no better than stay where she is,” returned Lizzie, releasing the hand, and laying her own lightly on Miss Jenny’s curls. And then to Bradley: “From Charley, sir?”
In an irresolute way, and stealing a clumsy look at her, Bradley rose to place a chair for her, and then returned to his own.
“Strictly speaking,” said he, “I come from Charley, because I left him only a little while ago; but I am not commissioned by Charley. I come of my own spontaneous act.”
With her elbows on her bench, and her chin upon her hands, Miss Jenny Wren sat looking at him with a watchful sidelong look. Lizzie, in her different way, sat looking at him too.
“The fact is,” began Bradley, with a mouth so dry that he had some difficulty in articulating his words: the consciousness of which rendered his manner still more ungainly and undecided; “the truth is, that Charley, having no secrets from me (to the best of my belief), has confided the whole of this matter to me.”
He came to a stop, and Lizzie asked: “what matter, sir?”
“I thought,” returned the schoolmaster, stealing another look at her, and seeming to try in vain to sustain it; for the look dropped as it lighted on her eyes, “that it might be so superfluous as to be almost impertinent, to enter upon a definition of it. My allusion was to this matter of your having put aside your brother’s plans for you, and given the preference to those of Mr. —I believe the name is Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.”
He made this point of not being certain of the name, with another uneasy look at her, which dropped like the last.
Nothing being said on the other side, he had to begin again, and began with new embarrassment.