The next day brought him a reply; he found it on his breakfast table, and broke the envelope with amused curiosity.  Mrs. Cross wrote that “Sarah Walker” had been to see her, and if inquiries proved satisfactory, would be engaged.  “We are very greatly obliged for the trouble you have taken.  Many thanks for your kind inquiries as to my health.  I am glad to say that the worst of the shock has passed away, though I fear that I shall long continue to feel its effects.”  A few remarks followed on the terrible difficulties of the servant question; then “Should you be disengaged on Sunday next, we shall be glad if you will take a cup of tea with us.”

Over his coffee and egg, Will pondered this invitation.  It pleased him, undeniably, but caused him no undue excitement.  He would have liked to know in what degree Mrs. Cross’ daughter was a consenting party to the step.  Perhaps she felt that, after the services he had rendered, the least one could do was to invite him to tea.  Why should he refuse?  Before going to business, he wrote a brief acceptance.  During the day, a doubt now and then troubled him as to whether he had behaved discreetly, but on the whole he looked forward to Sunday with pleasant expectation.

How should he equip himself?  Should he go dressed as he would have gone to the Pomfrets’, in his easy walking attire, jacket and soft-felt?  Or did the circumstances dictate chimney-pot and frock-coat?  He scoffed at himself for fidgeting over the point; yet perhaps it had a certain importance.  After deciding for the informal costume, at the last moment he altered his mind, and went arrayed as society demands; with the result that, on entering the little parlour—­that name suited it much better than drawing-room—­he felt overdressed, pompous, generally absurd.  His cylinder seemed to be about three feet high; his gloves stared their newness; the tails of his coat felt as though they wrapped several times round his legs, and still left enough to trail upon the floor as he sat on a chair too low for him.  Never since the most awkward stage of boyhood had he felt so little at ease “in company.”  And he had a conviction that Bertha Cross was laughing at him.  Her smile was too persistent; it could only be explained as a compromise with threatening merriment.

A gap in the conversation prompted Warburton to speak of a little matter which was just now interesting him.  It related to Mr. Potts, the shopkeeper in Kennington Lane, whom he used to meet, but of whom for a couple of years and more, he had quite lost sight.  Stirred by reproach of conscience, he had at length gone to make inquiries; but the name of Potts was no longer over the shop.