And he
sang songs, did Fips; and made speeches, did Fips; and knocked off his
wine pretty handsomely, did Fips; and in short, he showed himself a
perfect Trump, did Fips, in all respects.
But ah! the happiness of strolling home at night--obstinate little Ruth,
she wouldn't hear of riding!--as they had done on that dear night, from
Furnival's Inn! The happiness of being able to talk about it, and to
confide their happiness to each other! The happiness of stating all
their little plans to Tom, and seeing his bright face grow brighter as
they spoke!
When they reached home, Tom left John and his sister in the parlour, and
went upstairs into his own room, under pretence of seeking a book. And
Tom actually winked to himself when he got upstairs; he thought it such
a deep thing to have done.
'They like to be by themselves, of course,' said Tom; 'and I came away
so naturally, that I have no doubt they are expecting me, every moment,
to return. That's capital!'
But he had not sat reading very long, when he heard a tap at his door.
'May I come in?' said John.
'Oh, surely!' Tom replied.
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