By degrees, as Mrs. Ascott’s hour approached, a curious tranquility and even gentleness came over her.  Her fretful dislike of seeing any face about her but Elizabeth’s became less.  She even endured her husband’s company for an hour of an evening; and at last humbled her pride enough to beg him to invite her sisters to Russell Square from Saturday to Monday, the only time when Hilary could be spared.

“For we don’t know what may happen,” said she to him, rather seriously.

And though he answered, “Oh, nonsense!” and desired her to get such ridiculous fancies out, of her head, still he consented, and himself wrote to Miss Leaf, giving the formal invitation.

The three sisters spent a happy time together, and Hilary made some highly appreciated family jokes about the handsome Christmas box that Selina was going to be so kind as to give them, and the small probability that she would have much enjoyment of the Christmas dinner to which Mr. Ascott, in the superabundance of his good feeling, had invited his sisters-in-law.  The baby, blessed innocent! seemed to have softened down all things—­as babies often do.

Altogether, it was with great cheerfulness, affectionateness, and hope that they took leave of Selina:  she, with unwonted consideration, insisting that the carriage should convey them all the way to Richmond.

“And,” she said, “perhaps some of these days my son, if he is a son, may have the pleasure of escorting his aunts home.  I shall certainly call him ‘Henry Leaf,’ and bring him up to be in every way a credit to our family.”

When the ladies were away, and Mrs. Ascott had retired to bed, it was still only nine o’clock, and a bright moonlight night.  Elizabeth thought she could steal down stairs and try to get a breath of fresh air round the square.  Her long confinement made her almost sick sometimes for a sight of the outer world, a sight of—­let me tell the entire truth—­her own faithful Tom.

She had not seen him now for fourteen days, and though his letters were very nice and exceedingly clever, still she craved for a look at his face, a grasp of his hand, perhaps even a kiss, long and close and tender, such as he would sometimes insist upon giving her, in spite of all policemen.  His love for her, demonstrative as was his nature, had become to this still, quiet girl inexpressibly sweet, far sweeter than she knew.

It was a clear winter night, and the moon went climbing over the fleecy white clouds in a way that made beauty even in Russell Square.  Elizabeth looked up at the sky, and thought how Tom would have enjoyed it, and wished he were beside her, and was so glad to think he would soon be beside her always, with all his humors and weaknesses, all his little cross-selfishness, and complainings; she could put up with all, and be happy through all, if only she had him with her and loving her.

His love for her, though fitful and fanciful, was yet so warm and real that it had become a necessity of her life.  As he always told her—­especially after he had had one of his little quarrels with her—­hers was to him.