prompt:
Chapter: First Impressions

"He is very clever, Maggie," said Lucy. She was kneeling on a
footstool at Maggie's feet, after placing that dark lady in the large
crimson-velvet chair. "I feel sure you will like him. I hope you
will."

"I shall be very difficult to please," said Maggie, smiling, and
holding up one of Lucy's long curls, that the sunlight might shine
through it. "A gentleman who thinks he is good enough for Lucy must
expect to be sharply criticised."

"Indeed, he's a great deal too good for me. And sometimes, when he is
away, I almost think it can't really be that he loves me. But I can
never doubt it when he is with me, though I couldn't bear any one but
you to know that I feel in that way, Maggie."

"Oh, then, if I disapprove of him you can give him up, since you are
not engaged," said Maggie, with playful gravity.

"I would rather not be engaged. When people are engaged, they begin to
think of being married soon," said Lucy, too thoroughly preoccupied to
notice Maggie's joke; "and I should like everything to go on for a
long while just as it is. Sometimes I am quite frightened lest Stephen
should say that he has spoken to papa; and from something that fell
from papa the other day, I feel sure he and Mr. Guest are expecting
that. And Stephen's sisters are very civil to me now. At first, I
think they didn't like his paying me attention; and that was natural.
It _does_ seem out of keeping that I should ever live in a great place
like the Park House, such a little insignificant thing as I am."

"But people are not expected to be large in proportion to the houses
they live in, like snails," said Maggie, laughing. "Pray, are Mr.
Guest's sisters giantesses?"

"Oh no; and not handsome,--that is, not very," said Lucy,
half-penitent at this uncharitable remark. "But _he_ is--at least he
is generally considered very handsome."

"Though you are unable to share that opinion?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Lucy, blushing pink over brow and neck. "It
is a bad plan to raise expectation; you will perhaps be disappointed.
But I have prepared a charming surprise for _him;_ I shall have a
glorious laugh against him. I shall not tell you what it is, though."

Lucy rose from her knees and went to a little distance, holding her
pretty head on one side, as if she had been arranging Maggie for a
portrait, and wished to judge of the general effect.

"Stand up a moment, Maggie."

"What is your pleasure now?" said Maggie, smiling languidly as she
rose from her chair and looked down on her slight, aerial cousin,
whose figure was quite subordinate to her faultless drapery of silk
and crape.

Lucy kept her contemplative attitude a moment or two in silence, and
then said,--

"I can't think what witchery it is in you, Maggie, that makes you look
best in shabby clothes; though you really must have a new dress now.
But do you know, last night I was trying to fancy you in a handsome,
fashionable dress, and do what I would, that old limp merino would
come back as the only right thing for you. I wonder if Marie
Antoinette looked all the grander when her gown was darned at the
elbows. Now, if _I_ were to put anything shabby on, I should be quite
unnoticeable. I should be a mere rag."

"Oh, quite," said Maggie, with mock gravity. "You would be liable to
be swept out of the room with the cobwebs and carpet-dust, and to find
yourself under the grate, like Cinderella. Mayn't I sit down now?"

"Yes, now you may," said Lucy, laughing. Then, with an air of serious
reflection, unfastening her large jet brooch, "But you must change
brooches, Maggie; that little butterfly looks silly on you."

"But won't that mar the charming effect of my consistent shabbiness?"
said Maggie, seating herself submissively, while Lucy knelt again and
unfastened the contemptible butterfly. "I wish my mother were of your
opinion, for she was fretting last night because this is my best
frock. I've been saving my money to pay for some lessons; I shall
never get a better situation without more accomplishments."

Maggie gave a little sigh.

"Now, don't put on that sad look again," said Lucy, pinning the large
brooch below Maggie's fine throat. "You're forgetting that you've left
that dreary schoolroom behind you, and have no little girls' clothes
to mend."

"Yes," said Maggie. "It is with me as I used to think it would be with
the poor uneasy white bear I saw at the show. I thought he must have
got so stupid with the habit of turning backward and forward in that
narrow space that he would keep doing it if they set him free. One
gets a bad habit of being unhappy."

"But I shall put you under a discipline of pleasure that will make you
lose that bad habit," said Lucy, sticking the black butterfly absently
in her own collar, while her eyes met Maggie's affectionately.

"You dear, tiny thing," said Maggie, in one of her bursts of loving
admiration, "you enjoy other people's happiness so much, I believe you
would do without any of your own. I wish I were like you."

"I've never been tried in that way," said Lucy. "I've always been so
happy. I don't know whether I could bear much trouble; I never had any
but poor mamma's death. You _have_ been tried, Maggie; and I'm sure
you feel for other people quite as much as I do."

"No, Lucy," said Maggie, shaking her head slowly, "I don't enjoy their
happiness as you do, else I should be more contented. I do feel for
them when they are in trouble; I don't think I could ever bear to make
any one _un_happy; and yet I often hate myself, because I get angry
sometimes at the sight of happy people. I think I get worse as I get
older, more selfish. That seems very dreadful."

"Now, Maggie!" said Lucy, in a tone of remonstrance, "I don't believe
a word of that. It is all a gloomy fancy, just because you are
depressed by a dull, wearisome life."

"Well, perhaps it is," said Maggie, resolutely clearing away the
clouds from her face with a bright smile, and throwing herself
backward in her chair. "Perhaps it comes from the school diet,--watery
rice-pudding spiced with Pinnock. Let us hope it will give way before
my mother's custards and this charming Geoffrey Crayon."

Maggie took up the "Sketch Book," which lay by her on the table.

"Do I look fit to be seen with this little brooch?" said Lucy, going
to survey the effect in the chimney-glass.

"Oh no, Mr. Guest will be obliged to go out of the room again if he
sees you in it. Pray make haste and put another on."

Lucy hurried out of the room, but Maggie did not take the opportunity
of opening her book; she let it fall on her knees, while her eyes
wandered to the window, where she could see the sunshine falling on
the rich clumps of spring flowers and on the long hedge of laurels,
and beyond, the silvery breadth of the dear old Floss, that at this
distance seemed to be sleeping in a morning holiday. The sweet fresh
garden-scent came through the open window, and the birds were busy
flitting and alighting, gurgling and singing. Yet Maggie's eyes began
to fill with tears. The sight of the old scenes had made the rush of
memories so painful that even yesterday she had only been able to
rejoice in her mother's restored comfort and Tom's brotherly
friendliness as we rejoice in good news of friends at a distance,
rather than in the presence of a happiness which we share. Memory and
imagination urged upon her a sense of privation too keen to let her
taste what was offered in the transient present. Her future, she
thought, was likely to be worse than her past, for after her years of
contented renunciation, she had slipped back into desire and longing;
she found joyless days of distasteful occupation harder and harder;
she found the image of the intense and varied life she yearned for,
and despaired of, becoming more and more importunate. The sound of the
opening door roused her, and hastily wiping away her tears, she began
to turn over the leaves of her book.

"There is one pleasure, I know, Maggie, that your deepest dismalness
will never resist," said Lucy, beginning to speak as soon as she
entered the room. "That is music, and I mean you to have quite a
riotous feast of it. I mean you to get up your playing again, which
used to be so much better than mine, when we were at Laceham."

"You would have laughed to see me playing the little girls' tunes over
and over to them, when I took them to practise," said Maggie, "just
for the sake of fingering the dear keys again. But I don't know
whether I could play anything more difficult now than 'Begone, dull
care!'"

"I know what a wild state of joy you used to be in when the glee-men
came round," said Lucy, taking up her embroidery; "and we might have
all those old glees that you used to love so, if I were certain that
you don't feel exactly as Tom does about some things."

"I should have thought there was nothing you might be more certain
of," said Maggie, smiling.

"I ought rather to have said, one particular thing. Because if you
feel just as he does about that, we shall want our third voice. St.
Ogg's is so miserably provided with musical gentlemen. There are
really only Stephen and Philip Wakem who have any knowledge of music,
so as to be able to sing a part."

Lucy had looked up from her work as she uttered the last sentence, and
saw that there was a change in Maggie's face.

"Does it hurt you to hear the name mentioned, Maggie? If it does, I
will not speak of him again. I know Tom will not see him if he can
avoid it."

"I don't feel at all as Tom does on that subject," said Maggie, rising
and going to the window as if she wanted to see more of the landscape.
"I've always liked Philip Wakem ever since I was a little girl, and
saw him at Lorton. He was so good when Tom hurt his foot."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" said Lucy. "Then you won't mind his coming
sometimes, and we can have much more music than we could without him.
I'm very fond of poor Philip, only I wish he were not so morbid about
his deformity. I suppose it _is_ his deformity that makes him so sad,
and sometimes bitter. It is certainly very piteous to see his poor
little crooked body and pale face among great, strong people."

"But, Lucy----" said Maggie, trying to arrest the prattling stream.

"Ah, there is the door-bell. That must be Stephen," Lucy went on, not
noticing Maggie's faint effort to speak. "One of the things I most
admire in Stephen is that he makes a greater friend of Philip than any
one."

It was too late for Maggie to speak now; the drawingroom door was
opening, and Minny was already growling in a small way at the entrance
of a tall gentleman, who went up to Lucy and took her hand with a
half-polite, half-tender glance and tone of inquiry, which seemed to
indicate that he was unconscious of any other presence.

"Let me introduce you to my cousin, Miss Tulliver," said Lucy, turning
with wicked enjoyment toward Maggie, who now approached from the
farther window. "This is Mr. Stephen Guest."

For one instant Stephen could not conceal his astonishment at the
sight of this tall, dark-eyed nymph with her jet-black coronet of
hair; the next, Maggie felt herself, for the first time in her life,
receiving the tribute of a very deep blush and a very deep bow from a
person toward whom she herself was conscious of timidity.

This new experience was very agreeable to her, so agreeable that it
almost effaced her previous emotion about Philip. There was a new
brightness in her eyes, and a very becoming flush on her cheek, as she
seated herself.

"I hope you perceive what a striking likeness you drew the day before
yesterday," said Lucy, with a pretty laugh of triumph. She enjoyed her
lover's confusion; the advantage was usually on his side.

"This designing cousin of yours quite deceived me, Miss Tulliver,"
said Stephen, seating himself by Lucy, and stooping to play with
Minny, only looking at Maggie furtively. "She said you had light hair
and blue eyes."

"Nay, it was you who said so," remonstrated Lucy. "I only refrained
from destroying your confidence in your own second-sight."

"I wish I could always err in the same way," said Stephen, "and find
reality so much more beautiful than my preconceptions."

"Now you have proved yourself equal to the occasion," said Maggie,
"and said what it was incumbent on you to say under the
circumstances."

She flashed a slightly defiant look at him; it was clear to her that
he had been drawing a satirical portrait of her beforehand. Lucy had
said he was inclined to be satirical, and Maggie had mentally supplied
the addition, "and rather conceited."

"An alarming amount of devil there," was Stephen's first thought. The
second, when she had bent over her work, was, "I wish she would look
at me again." The next was to answer,--

"I suppose all phrases of mere compliment have their turn to be true.
A man is occasionally grateful when he says 'Thank you.' It's rather
hard upon him that he must use the same words with which all the world
declines a disagreeable invitation, don't you think so, Miss
Tulliver?"

"No," said Maggie, looking at him with her direct glance; "if we use
common words on a great occasion, they are the more striking, because
they are felt at once to have a particular meaning, like old banners,
or every-day clothes, hung up in a sacred place."

"Then my compliment ought to be eloquent," said Stephen, really not
quite knowing what he said while Maggie looked at him, "seeing that
the words were so far beneath the occasion."

"No compliment can be eloquent, except as an expression of
indifference," said Maggie, flushing a little.

Lucy was rather alarmed; she thought Stephen and Maggie were not going
to like each other. She had always feared lest Maggie should appear
too old and clever to please that critical gentleman. "Why, dear
Maggie," she interposed, "you have always pretended that you are too
fond of being admired; and now, I think, you are angry because some
one ventures to admire you."

"Not at all," said Maggie; "I like too well to feel that I am admired,
but compliments never make me feel that."

"I will never pay you a compliment again, Miss Tulliver," said
Stephen.

"Thank you; that will be a proof of respect."

Poor Maggie! She was so unused to society that she could take nothing
as a matter of course, and had never in her life spoken from the lips
merely, so that she must necessarily appear absurd to more experienced
ladies, from the excessive feeling she was apt to throw into very
trivial incidents. But she was even conscious herself of a little
absurdity in this instance. It was true she had a theoretic objection
to compliments, and had once said impatiently to Philip that she
didn't see why women were to be told with a simper that they were
beautiful, any more than old men were to be told that they were
venerable; still, to be so irritated by a common practice in the case
of a stranger like Mr. Stephen Guest, and to care about his having
spoken slightingly of her before he had seen her, was certainly
unreasonable, and as soon as she was silent she began to be ashamed of
herself. It did not occur to her that her irritation was due to the
pleasanter emotion which preceded it, just as when we are satisfied
with a sense of glowing warmth an innocent drop of cold water may fall
upon us as a sudden smart.

Stephen was too well bred not to seem unaware that the previous
conversation could have been felt embarrassing, and at once began to
talk of impersonal matters, asking Lucy if she knew when the bazaar
was at length to take place, so that there might be some hope of
seeing her rain the influence of her eyes on objects more grateful
than those worsted flowers that were growing under her fingers.

"Some day next month, I believe," said Lucy. "But your sisters are
doing more for it than I am; they are to have the largest stall."

"Ah yes; but they carry on their manufactures in their own
sitting-room, where I don't intrude on them. I see you are not
addicted to the fashionable vice of fancy-work, Miss Tulliver," said
Stephen, looking at Maggie's plain hemming.

"No," said Maggie, "I can do nothing more difficult or more elegant
than shirt-making."

"And your plain sewing is so beautiful, Maggie," said Lucy, "that I
think I shall beg a few specimens of you to show as fancy-work. Your
exquisite sewing is quite a mystery to me, you used to dislike that
sort of work so much in old days."

"It is a mystery easily explained, dear," said Maggie, looking up
quietly. "Plain sewing was the only thing I could get money by, so I
was obliged to try and do it well."

Lucy, good and simple as she was, could not help blushing a little.
She did not quite like that Stephen should know that; Maggie need not
have mentioned it. Perhaps there was some pride in the confession,--
the pride of poverty that will not be ashamed of itself. But if Maggie
had been the queen of coquettes she could hardly have invented a means
of giving greater piquancy to her beauty in Stephen's eyes; I am not
sure that the quiet admission of plain sewing and poverty would have
done alone, but assisted by the beauty, they made Maggie more unlike
other women even than she had seemed at first.

"But I can knit, Lucy," Maggie went on, "if that will be of any use
for your bazaar."

"Oh yes, of infinite use. I shall set you to work with scarlet wool
to-morrow. But your sister is the most enviable person," continued
Lucy, turning to Stephen, "to have the talent of modelling. She is
doing a wonderful bust of Dr. Kenn entirely from memory."

"Why, if she can remember to put the eyes very near together, and the
corners of the mouth very far apart, the likeness can hardly fail to
be striking in St. Ogg's."

"Now that is very wicked of you," said Lucy, looking rather hurt. "I
didn't think you would speak disrespectfully of Dr. Kenn."

"I say anything disrespectful of Dr. Kenn? Heaven forbid! But I am not
bound to respect a libellous bust of him. I think Kenn one of the
finest fellows in the world. I don't care much about the tall
candlesticks he has put on the communion-table, and I shouldn't like
to spoil my temper by getting up to early prayers every morning. But
he's the only man I ever knew personally who seems to me to have
anything of the real apostle in him,--a man who has eight hundred
a-year and is contented with deal furniture and boiled beef because he
gives away two-thirds of his income. That was a very fine thing of
him,--taking into his house that poor lad Grattan, who shot his mother
by accident. He sacrifices more time than a less busy man could spare,
to save the poor fellow from getting into a morbid state of mind about
it. He takes the lad out with him constantly, I see."

"That is beautiful," said Maggie, who had let her work fall, and was
listening with keen interest. "I never knew any one who did such things."

"And one admires that sort of action in Kenn all the more," said
Stephen, "because his manners in general are rather cold and severe.
There's nothing sugary and maudlin about him."

"Oh, I think he's a perfect character!" said Lucy, with pretty
enthusiasm.

"No; there I can't agree with you," said Stephen, shaking his head
with sarcastic gravity.

"Now, what fault can you point out in him?"

"He's an Anglican."

"Well, those are the right views, I think," said Lucy, gravely.

"That settles the question in the abstract," said Stephen, "but not
from a parliamentary point of view. He has set the Dissenters and the
Church people by the ears; and a rising senator like myself, of whose
services the country is very much in need, will find it inconvenient
when he puts up for the honor of representing St. Ogg's in
Parliament."

"Do you really think of that?" said Lucy, her eyes brightening with a
proud pleasure that made her neglect the argumentative interests of
Anglicanism.

"Decidedly, whenever old Mr. Leyburn's public spirit and gout induce
him to give way. My father's heart is set on it; and gifts like mine,
you know"--here Stephen drew himself up, and rubbed his large white
hands over his hair with playful self-admiration--"gifts like mine
involve great responsibilities. Don't you think so, Miss Tulliver?"

"Yes," said Maggie, smiling, but not looking up; "so much fluency and
self-possession should not be wasted entirely on private occasions."

"Ah, I see how much penetration you have," said Stephen. "You have
discovered already that I am talkative and impudent. Now superficial
people never discern that, owing to my manner, I suppose."

"She doesn't look at me when I talk of myself," he thought, while his
listeners were laughing. "I must try other subjects."

Did Lucy intend to be present at the meeting of the Book Club next
week? was the next question. Then followed the recommendation to
choose Southey's "Life of Cowper," unless she were inclined to be
philosophical, and startle the ladies of St. Ogg's by voting for one
of the Bridgewater Treatises. Of course Lucy wished to know what these
alarmingly learned books were; and as it is always pleasant to improve
the minds of ladies by talking to them at ease on subjects of which
they know nothing, Stephen became quite brilliant in an account of
Buckland's Treatise, which he had just been reading. He was rewarded
by seeing Maggie let her work fall, and gradually get so absorbed in
his wonderful geological story that she sat looking at him, leaning
forward with crossed arms, and with an entire absence of
self-consciousness, as if he had been the snuffiest of old professors,
and she a downy-lipped alumna. He was so fascinated by the clear,
large gaze that at last he forgot to look away from it occasionally
toward Lucy; but she, sweet child, was only rejoicing that Stephen was
proving to Maggie how clever he was, and that they would certainly be
good friends after all.

"I will bring you the book, shall I, Miss Tulliver?" said Stephen,
when he found the stream of his recollections running rather shallow.
"There are many illustrations in it that you will like to see."

"Oh, thank you," said Maggie, blushing with returning
self-consciousness at this direct address, and taking up her work
again.

"No, no," Lucy interposed. "I must forbid your plunging Maggie in
books. I shall never get her away from them; and I want her to have
delicious do-nothing days, filled with boating and chatting and riding
and driving; that is the holiday she needs."

"Apropos!" said Stephen, looking at his watch. "Shall we go out for a
row on the river now? The tide will suit for us to the Tofton way, and
we can walk back."

That was a delightful proposition to Maggie, for it was years since
she had been on the river. When she was gone to put on her bonnet,
Lucy lingered to give an order to the servant, and took the
opportunity of telling Stephen that Maggie had no objection to seeing
Philip, so that it was a pity she had sent that note the day before
yesterday. But she would write another to-morrow and invite him.

"I'll call and beat him up to-morrow," said Stephen, "and bring him
with me in the evening, shall I? My sisters will want to call on you
when I tell them your cousin is with you. I must leave the field clear
for them in the morning."

"Oh yes, pray bring him," said Lucy. "And you _will_ like Maggie,
sha'n't you?" she added, in a beseeching tone. "Isn't she a dear,
noble-looking creature?"

"Too tall," said Stephen, smiling down upon her, "and a little too
fiery. She is not my type of woman, you know."

Gentlemen, you are aware, are apt to impart these imprudent
confidences to ladies concerning their unfavorable opinion of sister
fair ones. That is why so many women have the advantage of knowing
that they are secretly repulsive to men who have self-denyingly made
ardent love to them. And hardly anything could be more distinctively
characteristic of Lucy than that she both implicitly believed what
Stephen said, and was determined that Maggie should not know it. But
you, who have a higher logic than the verbal to guide you, have
already foreseen, as the direct sequence to that unfavorable opinion
of Stephen's, that he walked down to the boathouse calculating, by the
aid of a vivid imagination, that Maggie must give him her hand at
least twice in consequence of this pleasant boating plan, and that a
gentleman who wishes ladies to look at him is advantageously situated
when he is rowing them in a boat. What then? Had he fallen in love
with this surprising daughter of Mrs. Tulliver at first sight?
Certainly not. Such passions are never heard of in real life. Besides,
he was in love already, and half-engaged to the dearest little
creature in the world; and he was not a man to make a fool of himself
in any way. But when one is five-and-twenty, one has not chalk-stones
at one's finger-ends that the touch of a handsome girl should be
entirely indifferent. It was perfectly natural and safe to admire
beauty and enjoy looking at it,--at least under such circumstances as
the present. And there was really something very interesting about
this girl, with her poverty and troubles; it was gratifying to see the
friendship between the two cousins. Generally, Stephen admitted, he
was not fond of women who had any peculiarity of character, but here
the peculiarity seemed really of a superior kind, and provided one is
not obliged to marry such women, why, they certainly make a variety in
social intercourse.

Maggie did not fulfil Stephen's hope by looking at him during the
first quarter of an hour; her eyes were too full of the old banks that
she knew so well. She felt lonely, cut off from Philip,--the only
person who had ever seemed to love her devotedly, as she had always
longed to be loved. But presently the rhythmic movement of the oars
attracted her, and she thought she should like to learn how to row.
This roused her from her reverie, and she asked if she might take an
oar. It appeared that she required much teaching, and she became
ambitious. The exercise brought the warm blood into her cheeks, and
made her inclined to take her lesson merrily.

"I shall not be satisfied until I can manage both oars, and row you
and Lucy," she said, looking very bright as she stepped out of the
boat. Maggie, we know, was apt to forget the thing she was doing, and
she had chosen an inopportune moment for her remark; her foot slipped,
but happily Mr. Stephen Guest held her hand, and kept her up with a
firm grasp.

"You have not hurt yourself at all, I hope?" he said, bending to look
in her face with anxiety. It was very charming to be taken care of in
that kind, graceful manner by some one taller and stronger than one's
self. Maggie had never felt just in the same way before.

When they reached home again, they found uncle and aunt Pullet seated
with Mrs. Tulliver in the drawing-room, and Stephen hurried away,
asking leave to come again in the evening.

"And pray bring with you the volume of Purcell that you took away,"
said Lucy. "I want Maggie to hear your best songs."

Aunt Pullet, under the certainty that Maggie would be invited to go
out with Lucy, probably to Park House, was much shocked at the
shabbiness of her clothes, which when witnessed by the higher society
of St. Ogg's, would be a discredit to the family, that demanded a
strong and prompt remedy; and the consultation as to what would be
most suitable to this end from among the superfluities of Mrs.
Pullet's wardrobe was one that Lucy as well as Mrs. Tulliver entered
into with some zeal. Maggie must really have an evening dress as soon
as possible, and she was about the same height as aunt Pullet.

"But she's so much broader across the shoulders than I am, it's very
ill-convenient," said Mrs. Pullet, "else she might wear that beautiful
black brocade o' mine without any alteration; and her arms are beyond
everything," added Mrs. Pullet, sorrowfully, as she lifted Maggie's
large round arm, "She'd never get my sleeves on."

"Oh, never mind that, aunt; send us the dress," said Lucy. "I don't
mean Maggie to have long sleeves, and I have abundance of black lace
for trimming. Her arms will look beautiful."

"Maggie's arms _are_ a pretty shape," said Mrs. Tulliver. "They're
like mine used to be, only mine was never brown; I wish she'd had
_our_ family skin."

"Nonsense, aunty!" said Lucy, patting her aunt Tulliver's shoulder,
"you don't understand those things. A painter would think Maggie's
complexion beautiful."

"Maybe, my dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, submissively. "You know better
than I do. Only when I was young a brown skin wasn't thought well on
among respectable folks."

"No," said uncle Pullet, who took intense interest in the ladies'
conversation as he sucked his lozenges. "Though there was a song about
the 'Nut-brown Maid' too; I think she was crazy,--crazy Kate,--but I
can't justly remember."

"Oh dear, dear!" said Maggie, laughing, but impatient; "I think that
will be the end of _my_ brown skin, if it is always to be talked about
so much."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Lucy and Maggie are hanging out and chatting. Maggie is in a good mood and is displaying her very sarcastic sense of humor. The two are discussing Stephen Guest. Lucy says that she's in no hurry to get married right now. Lucy also mentions that Stephen's sisters have been nice to her. Lucy decides that Maggie needs a makeover and wants to spoil Maggie while she is visiting. Maggie notes that she has gotten into the habit of being unhappy and wishes she were more like Lucy, who is cheerful and able to be happy for other people. Maggie confesses she is often jealous of happy people. Lucy reassures Maggie and tells her to cheer up and stop being a Debbie Downer. Lucy goes to put on some jewelry since Stephen is coming over, and Maggie starts to cry a little once she's alone. Maggie is finding it hard to be home again in St. Ogg's since she has lots of bad memories, and good ones too, in the place. Lucy comes back and tells Maggie that they're going to listen to tons of music, which is sure to cheer Maggie up. Then Lucy mentions Philip Wakem and watches Maggie's reaction. Maggie explains that she likes Philip and tries to tell Lucy about Tom forbidding her to see Philip - apparently there wasn't an expiration date on Maggie's promise to Tom to not see Philip again. But, before she can get into all that, Stephen shows up. Stephen is shocked when he meets Maggie, since he was expecting her to be blonde and dim-witted like her mom. Lucy laughs at Stephen's surprise and he mock scolds her for tricking him. Maggie is not amused that Stephen had made negative assumptions about her before even meeting her. Maggie decides that Stephen is conceited. Stephen decides that Maggie is trouble. Stephen and Maggie then get into a verbal sparring match. They debate compliments and whether they are ever sincere or not. Maggie dislikes compliments since she feels they are often hollow and Stephen agrees to never compliment her. Lucy is a bit alarmed at the two of them - she can't tell if they like each other or not. The conversation turns to an upcoming bazaar. A bazaar is a type of marketplace. In this context, it refers to a sort of fundraiser, rummage-sale thing. Lucy and Maggie are sewing things to sell at the bazaar, which will presumably raise money for something like a local church. Stephen comments on Maggie's rather plain sewing and Maggie explains to him and Lucy that she learned to make very basic items in order to sell them and make money. Stephen is impressed by Maggie's candor about her financial situation and her lack of embarrassment about it. They then discuss Dr. Kenn, who is the new clergyman in town. Lucy talks about the charity work he does and Maggie finds it really impressive and admirable. Stephen starts showing off how smart he is and tells the girls all about some books he is reading. Maggie finds this interesting and Stephen is practically hypnotized by Maggie's gaze. Lucy doesn't notice this. The group then decide to go rowing up the river Floss. Lucy and Stephen are alone for a minute and discuss having Philip over tomorrow. Stephen also assures Lucy that Maggie isn't his "type." The narrator tells us that love at first site is silly, but that Stephen and Maggie are definitely something at first site. Stephen really wants Maggie to look at him some more. The group have fun on the river and Maggie learns how to row. When she's getting out of the boat, she slips and Stephen catches her. They have a Moment, with a capital M. The Pullets are at Lucy's house when they get back. Aunt Pullet is dismayed by Maggie's wardrobe and the Pullets and Mrs. Tulliver start talking about Maggie's appearance while she is still in the room. Awkward. Lucy insists that Maggie is beautiful as she is, and Maggie laughs off everyone's comments.


prompt:
Chapter: Confidential Moments

When Maggie went up to her bedroom that night, it appeared that she
was not at all inclined to undress. She set down her candle on the
first table that presented itself, and began to walk up and down her
room, which was a large one, with a firm, regular, and rather rapid
step, which showed that the exercise was the instinctive vent of
strong excitement. Her eyes and cheeks had an almost feverish
brilliancy; her head was thrown backward, and her hands were clasped
with the palms outward, and with that tension of the arms which is apt
to accompany mental absorption.

Had anything remarkable happened?

Nothing that you are not likely to consider in the highest degree
unimportant. She had been hearing some fine music sung by a fine bass
voice,--but then it was sung in a provincial, amateur fashion, such as
would have left a critical ear much to desire. And she was conscious
of having been looked at a great deal, in rather a furtive manner,
from beneath a pair of well-marked horizontal eyebrows, with a glance
that seemed somehow to have caught the vibratory influence of the
voice. Such things could have had no perceptible effect on a
thoroughly well-educated young lady, with a perfectly balanced mind,
who had had all the advantages of fortune, training, and refined
society. But if Maggie had been that young lady, you would probably
have known nothing about her: her life would have had so few
vicissitudes that it could hardly have been written; for the happiest
women, like the happiest nations, have no history.

In poor Maggie's highly-strung, hungry nature,--just come away from a
third-rate schoolroom, with all its jarring sounds and petty round of
tasks,--these apparently trivial causes had the effect of rousing and
exalting her imagination in a way that was mysterious to herself. It
was not that she thought distinctly of Mr. Stephen Guest, or dwelt on
the indications that he looked at her with admiration; it was rather
that she felt the half-remote presence of a world of love and beauty
and delight, made up of vague, mingled images from all the poetry and
romance she had ever read, or had ever woven in her dreamy reveries.
Her mind glanced back once or twice to the time when she had courted
privation, when she had thought all longing, all impatience was
subdued; but that condition seemed irrecoverably gone, and she
recoiled from the remembrance of it. No prayer, no striving now, would
bring back that negative peace; the battle of her life, it seemed, was
not to be decided in that short and easy way,--by perfect renunciation
at the very threshold of her youth.

The music was vibrating in her still,--Purcell's music, with its wild
passion and fancy,--and she could not stay in the recollection of that
bare, lonely past. She was in her brighter aerial world again, when a
little tap came at the door; of course it was her cousin, who entered
in ample white dressing-gown.

"Why, Maggie, you naughty child, haven't you begun to undress?" said
Lucy, in astonishment. "I promised not to come and talk to you,
because I thought you must be tired. But here you are, looking as if
you were ready to dress for a ball. Come, come, get on your
dressing-gown and unplait your hair."

"Well, _you_ are not very forward," retorted Maggie, hastily reaching
her own pink cotton gown, and looking at Lucy's light-brown hair
brushed back in curly disorder.

"Oh, I have not much to do. I shall sit down and talk to you till I
see you are really on the way to bed."

While Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over her pink
drapery, Lucy sat down near the toilette-table, watching her with
affectionate eyes, and head a little aside, like a pretty spaniel. If
it appears to you at all incredible that young ladies should be led on
to talk confidentially in a situation of this kind, I will beg you to
remember that human life furnishes many exceptional cases.

"You really _have_ enjoyed the music to-night, haven't you Maggie?"

"Oh yes, that is what prevented me from feeling sleepy. I think I
should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of
music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs, and ideas into my
brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with
music. At other times one is conscious of carrying a weight."

"And Stephen has a splendid voice, hasn't he?"

"Well, perhaps we are neither of us judges of that," said Maggie,
laughing, as she seated herself and tossed her long hair back. "You
are not impartial, and _I_ think any barrel-organ splendid."

"But tell me what you think of him, now. Tell me exactly; good and bad
too."

"Oh, I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover should not be
so much at ease, and so self-confident. He ought to tremble more."

"Nonsense, Maggie! As if any one could tremble at me! You think he is
conceited, I see that. But you don't dislike him, do you?"

"Dislike him! No. Am I in the habit of seeing such charming people,
that I should be very difficult to please? Besides, how could I
dislike any one that promised to make you happy, my dear thing!"
Maggie pinched Lucy's dimpled chin.

"We shall have more music to-morrow evening," said Lucy, looking happy
already, "for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem with him."

"Oh, Lucy, I can't see him," said Maggie, turning pale. "At least, I
could not see him without Tom's leave."

"Is Tom such a tyrant as that?" said Lucy, surprised. "I'll take the
responsibility, then,--tell him it was my fault."

"But, dear," said Maggie, falteringly, "I promised Tom very solemnly,
before my father's death,--I promised him I would not speak to Philip
without his knowledge and consent. And I have a great dread of opening
the subject with Tom,--of getting into a quarrel with him again."

"But I never heard of anything so strange and unreasonable. What harm
can poor Philip have done? May I speak to Tom about it?"

"Oh no, pray don't, dear," said Maggie. "I'll go to him myself
to-morrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to come. I've thought
before of asking him to absolve me from my promise, but I've not had
the courage to determine on it."

They were both silent for some moments, and then Lucy said,--

"Maggie, you have secrets from me, and I have none from you."

Maggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Then she turned to her and
said, "I _should_ like to tell you about Philip. But, Lucy, you must
not betray that you know it to any one--least of all to Philip
himself, or to Mr. Stephen Guest."

The narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before known the
relief of such an outpouring; she had never before told Lucy anything
of her inmost life; and the sweet face bent toward her with
sympathetic interest, and the little hand pressing hers, encouraged
her to speak on. On two points only she was not expansive. She did not
betray fully what still rankled in her mind as Tom's great
offence,--the insults he had heaped on Philip. Angry as the
remembrance still made her, she could not bear that any one else
should know it at all, both for Tom's sake and Philip's. And she could
not bear to tell Lucy of the last scene between her father and Wakem,
though it was this scene which she had ever since felt to be a new
barrier between herself and Philip. She merely said, she saw now that
Tom was, on the whole, right in regarding any prospect of love and
marriage between her and Philip as put out of the question by the
relation of the two families. Of course Philip's father would never
consent.

"There, Lucy, you have had my story," said Maggie, smiling, with the
tears in her eyes. "You see I am like Sir Andrew Aguecheek. _I_ was
adored once."

"Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and everything, and have
learned so much since you left school; which always seemed to me
witchcraft before,--part of your general uncanniness," said Lucy.

She mused a little with her eyes downward, and then added, looking at
Maggie, "It is very beautiful that you should love Philip; I never
thought such a happiness would befall him. And in my opinion, you
ought not to give him up. There are obstacles now; but they may be
done away with in time."

Maggie shook her head.

"Yes, yes," persisted Lucy; "I can't help being hopeful about it.
There is something romantic in it,--out of the common way,--just what
everything that happens to you ought to be. And Philip will adore you
like a husband in a fairy tale. Oh, I shall puzzle my small brain to
contrive some plot that will bring everybody into the right mind, so
that you may marry Philip when I marry--somebody else. Wouldn't that
be a pretty ending to all my poor, poor Maggie's troubles?"

Maggie tried to smile, but shivered, as if she felt a sudden chill.

"Ah, dear, you are cold," said Lucy. "You must go to bed; and so must
I. I dare not think what time it is."

They kissed each other, and Lucy went away, possessed of a confidence
which had a strong influence over her subsequent impressions. Maggie
had been thoroughly sincere; her nature had never found it easy to be
otherwise. But confidences are sometimes blinding, even when they are
sincere.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: That night Maggie is having trouble getting ready for bed. She is too excited to sleep. She heard some great music that night and her encounters with Stephen are leaving her on edge. The narrator explains how important music is for Maggie and how she hasn't had much of it in her life for the past two years. She's basically like a starving person who has gotten dropped off at an all-you-can-eat buffet now. Lucy comes in and they girls talk a bit. They discuss music and Lucy asks for Maggie's opinion of Stephen. Maggie says that she likes Stephen find and encourages Lucy to tease him more often since he is a bit full of it. Maggie then explains the story with Philip to Lucy. She feels unburdened. Lucy finds the whole story really tragic and romantic - she's convinced that Philip and Maggie are star-crossed lovers now and tells Maggie that she'll help her out. Lucy wants Maggie to marry Philip and spend all her time with Lucy and Stephen. They can all double date and play the piano together and sing songs. Maggie shivers suddenly. Lucy assumes she's cold and leaves her to go to sleep. The narrator hints that Lucy is going to be guided by her assumptions regarding Maggie and Philip as soulmates in the future. This is also one of many hints we've gotten that Maggie isn't quite sure about her relationship with Philip.


prompt:
Chapter: Brother and Sister

Maggie was obliged to go to Tom's lodgings in the middle of the day,
when he would be coming in to dinner, else she would not have found
him at home. He was not lodging with entire strangers. Our friend Bob
Jakin had, with Mumps's tacit consent, taken not only a wife about
eight months ago, but also one of those queer old houses, pierced with
surprising passages, by the water-side, where, as he observed, his
wife and mother could keep themselves out of mischief by letting out
two "pleasure-boats," in which he had invested some of his savings,
and by taking in a lodger for the parlor and spare bedroom. Under
these circumstances, what could be better for the interests of all
parties, sanitary considerations apart, than that the lodger should be
Mr. Tom?

It was Bob's wife who opened the door to Maggie. She was a tiny woman,
with the general physiognomy of a Dutch doll, looking, in comparison
with Bob's mother, who filled up the passage in the rear, very much
like one of those human figures which the artist finds conveniently
standing near a colossal statue to show the proportions. The tiny
woman curtsied and looked up at Maggie with some awe as soon as she
had opened the door; but the words, "Is my brother at home?" which
Maggie uttered smilingly, made her turn round with sudden excitement,
and say,--

"Eh, mother, mother--tell Bob!--it's Miss Maggie! Come in, Miss, for
goodness do," she went on, opening a side door, and endeavoring to
flatten her person against the wall to make the utmost space for the
visitor.

Sad recollections crowded on Maggie as she entered the small parlor,
which was now all that poor Tom had to call by the name of
"home,"--that name which had once, so many years ago, meant for both
of them the same sum of dear familiar objects. But everything was not
strange to her in this new room; the first thing her eyes dwelt on was
the large old Bible, and the sight was not likely to disperse the old
memories. She stood without speaking.

"If you please to take the privilege o' sitting down, Miss," said Mrs.
Jakin, rubbing her apron over a perfectly clean chair, and then
lifting up the corner of that garment and holding it to her face with
an air of embarrassment, as she looked wonderingly at Maggie.

"Bob is at home, then?" said Maggie, recovering herself, and smiling
at the bashful Dutch doll.

"Yes, Miss; but I think he must be washing and dressing himself; I'll
go and see," said Mrs. Jakin, disappearing.

But she presently came back walking with new courage a little way
behind her husband, who showed the brilliancy of his blue eyes and
regular white teeth in the doorway, bowing respectfully.

"How do you do, Bob?" said Maggie, coming forward and putting out her
hand to him; "I always meant to pay your wife a visit, and I shall
come another day on purpose for that, if she will let me. But I was
obliged to come to-day to speak to my brother."

"He'll be in before long, Miss. He's doin' finely, Mr. Tom is; he'll
be one o' the first men hereabouts,--you'll see that."

"Well, Bob, I'm sure he'll be indebted to you, whatever he becomes; he
said so himself only the other night, when he was talking of you."

"Eh, Miss, that's his way o' takin' it. But I think the more on't when
he says a thing, because his tongue doesn't overshoot him as mine
does. Lors! I'm no better nor a tilted bottle, I ar'n't,--I can't stop
mysen when once I begin. But you look rarely, Miss; it does me good to
see you. What do you say now, Prissy?"--here Bob turned to his
wife,--"Isn't it all come true as I said? Though there isn't many
sorts o' goods as I can't over-praise when I set my tongue to't."

Mrs. Bob's small nose seemed to be following the example of her eyes
in turning up reverentially toward Maggie, but she was able now to
smile and curtsey, and say, "I'd looked forrard like aenything to
seein' you, Miss, for my husband's tongue's been runnin' on you, like
as if he was light-headed, iver since first he come a-courtin' on me."

"Well, well," said Bob, looking rather silly. "Go an' see after the
taters, else Mr. Tom 'ull have to wait for 'em."

"I hope Mumps is friendly with Mrs. Jakin, Bob," said Maggie, smiling.
"I remember you used to say he wouldn't like your marrying."

"Eh, Miss," said Bob, "he made up his mind to't when he see'd what a
little un she was. He pretends not to see her mostly, or else to think
as she isn't full-growed. But about Mr. Tom, Miss," said Bob, speaking
lower and looking serious, "he's as close as a iron biler, he is; but
I'm a 'cutish chap, an' when I've left off carrying my pack, an' am at
a loose end, I've got more brains nor I know what to do wi', an' I'm
forced to busy myself wi' other folks's insides. An' it worrets me as
Mr. Tom'll sit by himself so glumpish, a-knittin' his brow, an'
a-lookin' at the fire of a night. He should be a bit livelier now, a
fine young fellow like him. My wife says, when she goes in sometimes,
an' he takes no notice of her, he sits lookin' into the fire, and
frownin' as if he was watchin' folks at work in it."

"He thinks so much about business," said Maggie.

"Ay," said Bob, speaking lower; "but do you think it's nothin' else,
Miss? He's close, Mr. Tom is; but I'm a 'cute chap, I am, an' I
thought tow'rt last Christmas as I'd found out a soft place in him. It
was about a little black spaniel--a rare bit o' breed--as he made a
fuss to get. But since then summat's come over him, as he's set his
teeth again' things more nor iver, for all he's had such good luck.
An' I wanted to tell _you_, Miss, 'cause I thought you might work it
out of him a bit, now you're come. He's a deal too lonely, and doesn't
go into company enough."

"I'm afraid I have very little power over him, Bob," said Maggie, a
good deal moved by Bob's suggestion. It was a totally new idea to her
mind that Tom could have his love troubles. Poor fellow!--and in love
with Lucy too! But it was perhaps a mere fancy of Bob's too officious
brain. The present of the dog meant nothing more than cousinship and
gratitude. But Bob had already said, "Here's Mr. Tom," and the outer
door was opening.

"There is no time to spare, Tom," said Maggie, as soon as Bob left the
room. "I must tell you at once what I came about, else I shall be
hindering you from taking your dinner."

Tom stood with his back against the chimney-piece, and Maggie was
seated opposite the light. He noticed that she was tremulous, and he
had a presentiment of the subject she was going to speak about. The
presentiment made his voice colder and harder as he said, "What is
it?"

This tone roused a spirit of resistance in Maggie, and she put her
request in quite a different form from the one she had predetermined
on. She rose from her seat, and looking straight at Tom, said,--

"I want you to absolve me from my promise about Philip Wakem. Or
rather, I promised you not to see him without telling you. I am come
to tell you that I wish to see him."

"Very well," said Tom, still more coldly.

But Maggie had hardly finished speaking in that chill, defiant manner,
before she repented, and felt the dread of alienation from her
brother.

"Not for myself, dear Tom. Don't be angry. I shouldn't have asked it,
only that Philip, you know, is a friend of Lucy's and she wishes him
to come, has invited him to come this evening; and I told her I
couldn't see him without telling you. I shall only see him in the
presence of other people. There will never be anything secret between
us again."

Tom looked away from Maggie, knitting his brow more strongly for a
little while. Then he turned to her and said, slowly and
emphatically,--

"You know what is my feeling on that subject, Maggie. There is no need
for my repeating anything I said a year ago. While my father was
living, I felt bound to use the utmost power over you, to prevent you
from disgracing him as well as yourself, and all of us. But now I must
leave you to your own choice. You wish to be independent; you told me
so after my father's death. My opinion is not changed. If you think of
Philip Wakem as a lover again, you must give up me."

"I don't wish it, dear Tom, at least as things are; I see that it
would lead to misery. But I shall soon go away to another situation,
and I should like to be friends with him again while I am here. Lucy
wishes it."

The severity of Tom's face relaxed a little.

"I shouldn't mind your seeing him occasionally at my uncle's--I don't
want you to make a fuss on the subject. But I have no confidence in
you, Maggie. You would be led away to do anything."

That was a cruel word. Maggie's lip began to tremble.

"Why will you say that, Tom? It is very hard of you. Have I not done
and borne everything as well as I could? And I kept my word to
you--when--when----My life has not been a happy one, any more than
yours."

She was obliged to be childish; the tears would come. When Maggie was
not angry, she was as dependent on kind or cold words as a daisy on
the sunshine or the cloud; the need of being loved would always subdue
her, as, in old days, it subdued her in the worm-eaten attic. The
brother's goodness came uppermost at this appeal, but it could only
show itself in Tom's fashion. He put his hand gently on her arm, and
said, in the tone of a kind pedagogue,--

"Now listen to me, Maggie. I'll tell you what I mean. You're always in
extremes; you have no judgment and self-command; and yet you think you
know best, and will not submit to be guided. You know I didn't wish
you to take a situation. My aunt Pullet was willing to give you a good
home, and you might have lived respectably amongst your relations,
until I could have provided a home for you with my mother. And that is
what I should like to do. I wished my sister to be a lady, and I
always have taken care of you, as my father desired, until you were
well married. But your ideas and mine never accord, and you will not
give way. Yet you might have sense enough to see that a brother, who
goes out into the world and mixes with men, necessarily knows better
what is right and respectable for his sister than she can know
herself. You think I am not kind; but my kindness can only be directed
by what I believe to be good for you."

"Yes, I know, dear Tom," said Maggie, still half-sobbing, but trying
to control her tears. "I know you would do a great deal for me; I know
how you work, and don't spare yourself. I am grateful to you. But,
indeed, you can't quite judge for me; our natures are very different.
You don't know how differently things affect me from what they do
you."

"Yes, I _do_ know; I know it too well. I know how differently you must
feel about all that affects our family, and your own dignity as a
young woman, before you could think of receiving secret addresses from
Philip Wakem. If it was not disgusting to me in every other way, I
should object to my sister's name being associated for a moment with
that of a young man whose father must hate the very thought of us all,
and would spurn you. With any one but you, I should think it quite
certain that what you witnessed just before my father's death would
secure you from ever thinking again of Philip Wakem as a lover. But I
don't feel certain of it with you; I never feel certain about anything
with _you_. At one time you take pleasure in a sort of perverse
self-denial, and at another you have not resolution to resist a thing
that you know to be wrong."

There was a terrible cutting truth in Tom's words,--that hard rind of
truth which is discerned by unimaginative, unsympathetic minds. Maggie
always writhed under this judgment of Tom's; she rebelled and was
humiliated in the same moment; it seemed as if he held a glass before
her to show her her own folly and weakness, as if he were a prophetic
voice predicting her future fallings; and yet, all the while, she
judged him in return; she said inwardly that he was narrow and unjust,
that he was below feeling those mental needs which were often the
source of the wrong-doing or absurdity that made her life a planless
riddle to him.

She did not answer directly; her heart was too full, and she sat down,
leaning her arm on the table. It was no use trying to make Tom feel
that she was near to him. He always repelled her. Her feeling under
his words was complicated by the allusion to the last scene between
her father and Wakem; and at length that painful, solemn memory
surmounted the immediate grievance. No! She did not think of such
things with frivolous indifference, and Tom must not accuse her of
that. She looked up at him with a grave, earnest gaze and said,--

"I can't make you think better of me, Tom, by anything I can say. But
I am not so shut out from all your feelings as you believe me to be. I
see as well as you do that from our position with regard to Philip's
father--not on other grounds--it would be unreasonable, it would be
wrong, for us to entertain the idea of marriage; and I have given up
thinking of him as a lover. I am telling you the truth, and you have
no right to disbelieve me; I have kept my word to you, and you have
never detected me in a falsehood. I should not only not encourage, I
should carefully avoid, any intercourse with Philip on any other
footing than of quiet friendship. You may think that I am unable to
keep my resolutions; but at least you ought not to treat me with hard
contempt on the ground of faults that I have not committed yet."

"Well, Maggie," said Tom, softening under this appeal, "I don't want
to overstrain matters. I think, all things considered, it will be best
for you to see Philip Wakem, if Lucy wishes him to come to the house.
I believe what you say,--at least you believe it yourself, I know; I
can only warn you. I wish to be as good a brother to you as you will
let me."

There was a little tremor in Tom's voice as he uttered the last words,
and Maggie's ready affection came back with as sudden a glow as when
they were children, and bit their cake together as a sacrament of
conciliation. She rose and laid her hand on Tom's shoulder.

"Dear Tom, I know you mean to be good. I know you have had a great
deal to bear, and have done a great deal. I should like to be a
comfort to you, not to vex you. You don't think I'm altogether
naughty, now, do you?"

Tom smiled at the eager face; his smiles were very pleasant to see
when they did come, for the gray eyes could be tender underneath the
frown.

"No, Maggie."

"I may turn out better than you expect."

"I hope you will."

"And may I come some day and make tea for you, and see this extremely
small wife of Bob's again?"

"Yes; but trot away now, for I've no more time to spare," said Tom,
looking at his watch.

"Not to give me a kiss?"

Tom bent to kiss her cheek, and then said,--

"There! Be a good girl. I've got a great deal to think of to-day. I'm
going to have a long consultation with my uncle Deane this afternoon."

"You'll come to aunt Glegg's to-morrow? We're going all to dine early,
that we may go there to tea. You _must_ come; Lucy told me to say so."

"Oh, pooh! I've plenty else to do," said Tom, pulling his bell
violently, and bringing down the small bell-rope.

"I'm frightened; I shall run away," said Maggie, making a laughing
retreat; while Tom, with masculine philosophy, flung the bell-rope to
the farther end of the room; not very far either,--a touch of human
experience which I flatter myself will come home to the bosoms of not
a few substantial or distinguished men who were once at an early stage
of their rise in the world, and were cherishing very large hopes in
very small lodgings.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Maggie goes to see Tom the next day. Tom is renting a room from Bob Jakin. Bob is now married and his mother also lives with them. Bob's wife is very tiny and very sweet and she is happy to see Maggie. Bob comes in to say hello to Maggie. He is as cheerful and as talkative as ever. Bob brags about his wife and notes that his business is going well. He is worried about Tom though: Tom works all the time and doesn't seem to have any friends or fun. Bob also suspects that Tom is lovesick - he mentions that Tom bought a girl a dog for Christmas but he now seems in a worse mood than ever. The dog in question is Lucy's dog, Minny. Maggie is surprised to think that Tom might have a crush on Lucy, but then dismisses the idea as silly. Tom comes in and Bob leaves so they can talk in private. Maggie gets right to the point: she wants Tom to absolve her of her promise to not see Philip anymore. Tom proves that he can hold a grudge like no one can. He is really cold to Maggie and tells her that if she wants to start speaking to Philip again, he won't talk to her anymore. Maggie explains to Tom that she is only asking because Lucy plans to invite Philip over and she doesn't want things to be awkward, especially since she is a guest at Lucy's house. Tom tells Maggie that he doesn't trust her at all. He complains that Maggie is reckless and irresponsible. Tom is upset that Maggie has been working as a governess too: he wanted her to go live with Aunt Pullet or Aunt Glegg. Maggie tells Tom that they are very different and that he really can't judge for her. Tom begs to differ since he is apparently always right and all-knowing to boot. He then goes on a spiel about how evil the Wakems are and how Maggie always makes bad decisions. Maggie is both angry and humiliated. Maggie tells Tom that he is being harsh and that he ought to be nicer to her since she is his sister. He shouldn't assume what she will do in the future either. The two decide to drop the subject and Tom says that he doesn't mind if she sees Philip at Lucy's house, but only there. The two joke around some and Maggie leaves.


prompt:
Chapter: Showing That Tom Had Opened the Oyster

"And now we've settled this Newcastle business, Tom," said Mr. Deane,
that same afternoon, as they were seated in the private room at the
Bank together, "there's another matter I want to talk to you about.
Since you're likely to have rather a smoky, unpleasant time of it at
Newcastle for the next few weeks, you'll want a good prospect of some
sort to keep up your spirits."

Tom waited less nervously than he had done on a former occasion in
this apartment, while his uncle took out his snuff-box and gratified
each nostril with deliberate impartiality.

"You see, Tom," said Mr. Deane at last, throwing himself backward,
"the world goes on at a smarter pace now than it did when I was a
young fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, when I was much such a
strapping youngster as you, a man expected to pull between the shafts
the best part of his life, before he got the whip in his hand. The
looms went slowish, and fashions didn't alter quite so fast; I'd a
best suit that lasted me six years. Everything was on a lower scale,
sir,--in point of expenditure, I mean. It's this steam, you see, that
has made the difference; it drives on every wheel double pace, and the
wheel of fortune along with 'em, as our Mr. Stephen Guest said at the
anniversary dinner (he hits these things off wonderfully, considering
he's seen nothing of business). I don't find fault with the change, as
some people do. Trade, sir, opens a man's eyes; and if the population
is to get thicker upon the ground, as it's doing, the world must use
its wits at inventions of one sort or other. I know I've done my share
as an ordinary man of business. Somebody has said it's a fine thing to
make two ears of corn grow where only one grew before; but, sir, it's
a fine thing, too, to further the exchange of commodities, and bring
the grains of corn to the mouths that are hungry. And that's our line
of business; and I consider it as honorable a position as a man can
hold, to be connected with it."

Tom knew that the affair his uncle had to speak of was not urgent; Mr.
Deane was too shrewd and practical a man to allow either his
reminiscences or his snuff to impede the progress of trade. Indeed,
for the last month or two, there had been hints thrown out to Tom
which enabled him to guess that he was going to hear some proposition
for his own benefit. With the beginning of the last speech he had
stretched out his legs, thrust his hands in his pockets, and prepared
himself for some introductory diffuseness, tending to show that Mr.
Deane had succeeded by his own merit, and that what he had to say to
young men in general was, that if they didn't succeed too it was
because of their own demerit. He was rather surprised, then, when his
uncle put a direct question to him.

"Let me see,--it's going on for seven years now since you applied to
me for a situation, eh, Tom?"

"Yes, sir; I'm three-and-twenty now," said Tom.

"Ah, it's as well not to say that, though; for you'd pass for a good
deal older, and age tells well in business. I remember your coming
very well; I remember I saw there was some pluck in you, and that was
what made me give you encouragement. And I'm happy to say I was right;
I'm not often deceived. I was naturally a little shy at pushing my
nephew, but I'm happy to say you've done me credit, sir; and if I'd
had a son o' my own, I shouldn't have been sorry to see him like you."

Mr. Deane tapped his box and opened it again, repeating in a tone of
some feeling, "No, I shouldn't have been sorry to see him like you."

"I'm very glad I've given you satisfaction, sir; I've done my best,"
said Tom, in his proud, independent way.

"Yes, Tom, you've given me satisfaction. I don't speak of your conduct
as a son; though that weighs with me in my opinion of you. But what I
have to do with, as a partner in our firm, is the qualities you've
shown as a man o' business. Ours is a fine business,--a splendid
concern, sir,--and there's no reason why it shouldn't go on growing;
there's a growing capital, and growing outlets for it; but there's
another thing that's wanted for the prosperity of every concern, large
or small, and that's men to conduct it,--men of the right habits; none
o' your flashy fellows, but such as are to be depended on. Now this is
what Mr. Guest and I see clear enough. Three years ago we took Gell
into the concern; we gave him a share in the oil-mill. And why? Why,
because Gell was a fellow whose services were worth a premium. So it
will always be, sir. So it was with me. And though Gell is pretty near
ten years older than you, there are other points in your favor."

Tom was getting a little nervous as Mr. Deane went on speaking; he was
conscious of something he had in his mind to say, which might not be
agreeable to his uncle, simply because it was a new suggestion rather
than an acceptance of the proposition he foresaw.

"It stands to reason," Mr. Deane went on, when he had finished his new
pinch, "that your being my nephew weighs in your favor; but I don't
deny that if you'd been no relation of mine at all, your conduct in
that affair of Pelley's bank would have led Mr. Guest and myself to
make some acknowledgment of the service you've been to us; and, backed
by your general conduct and business ability, it has made us determine
on giving you a share in the business,--a share which we shall be glad
to increase as the years go on. We think that'll be better, on all
grounds, than raising your salary. It'll give you more importance, and
prepare you better for taking some of the anxiety off my shoulders by
and by. I'm equal to a good deal o' work at present, thank God; but
I'm getting older,--there's no denying that. I told Mr. Guest I would
open the subject to you; and when you come back from this northern
business, we can go into particulars. This is a great stride for a
young fellow of three-and-twenty, but I'm bound to say you've deserved
it."

"I'm very grateful to Mr. Guest and you, sir; of course I feel the
most indebted to _you_, who first took me into the business, and have
taken a good deal of pains with me since."

Tom spoke with a slight tremor, and paused after he had said this.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Deane. "I don't spare pains when I see they'll be
of any use. I gave myself some trouble with Gell, else he wouldn't
have been what he is."

"But there's one thing I should like to mention to you uncle. I've
never spoken to you of it before. If you remember, at the time my
father's property was sold, there was some thought of your firm buying
the Mill; I know you thought it would be a very good investment,
especially if steam were applied."

"To be sure, to be sure. But Wakem outbid us; he'd made up his mind to
that. He's rather fond of carrying everything over other people's
heads."

"Perhaps it's of no use my mentioning it at present," Tom went on,
"but I wish you to know what I have in my mind about the Mill. I've a
strong feeling about it. It was my father's dying wish that I should
try and get it back again whenever I could; it was in his family for
five generations. I promised my father; and besides that, I'm attached
to the place. I shall never like any other so well. And if it should
ever suit your views to buy it for the firm, I should have a better
chance of fulfilling my father's wish. I shouldn't have liked to
mention the thing to you, only you've been kind enough to say my
services have been of some value. And I'd give up a much greater
chance in life for the sake of having the Mill again,--I mean having
it in my own hands, and gradually working off the price."

Mr. Deane had listened attentively, and now looked thoughtful.

"I see, I see," he said, after a while; "the thing would be possible
if there were any chance of Wakem's parting with the property. But
that I _don't_ see. He's put that young Jetsome in the place; and he
had his reasons when he bought it, I'll be bound."

"He's a loose fish, that young Jetsome," said Tom. "He's taking to
drinking, and they say he's letting the business go down. Luke told me
about it,--our old miller. He says he sha'n't stay unless there's an
alteration. I was thinking, if things went on that way, Wakem might be
more willing to part with the Mill. Luke says he's getting very sour
about the way things are going on."

"Well, I'll turn it over, Tom. I must inquire into the matter, and go
into it with Mr. Guest. But, you see, it's rather striking out a new
branch, and putting you to that, instead of keeping you where you are,
which was what we'd wanted."

"I should be able to manage more than the Mill when things were once
set properly going, sir. I want to have plenty of work. There's
nothing else I care about much."

There was something rather sad in that speech from a young man of
three-and-twenty, even in uncle Deane's business-loving ears.

"Pooh, pooh! you'll be having a wife to care about one of these days,
if you get on at this pace in the world. But as to this Mill, we
mustn't reckon on our chickens too early. However, I promise you to
bear it in mind, and when you come back we'll talk of it again. I am
going to dinner now. Come and breakfast with us to-morrow morning, and
say good-bye to your mother and sister before you start."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Tom is at the bank talking to Mr. Deane. Tom has been going on business trips and is doing really well. Mr. Deane gives another one of his patented 'back in my day, sonny, I walked 50 miles in the snow everywhere' type of speeches. This time he talks about how the world is changing. We learn that Tom has been working for Mr. Deane for seven years and that he is now twenty-three. Mr. Deane gives a very rambling run-down of the business and how Tom has been excelling. After a while, he finally gets to the point: Mr. Guest and Mr. Deane want to promote Tom and give him a share in the business. So Tom will basically have stock in the company now. Tom is happy about this. But Tom has something to ask Mr. Deane: he wants his help to buy back the mill. He explains it was his father's dying wish and that there's an opportunity to get it now since Wakem's current manager is no good and Wakem might just want to get rid of the place now. Mr. Deane is intrigued and says he'll think about it, but notes that he'd rather keep Tom in his current position rather than make him a Mill manager right now. Tom says he could do both since he loves work. Mr. Deane finds this a bit depressing and tells Tom that he'll get married one day and have other things to worry about.


prompt:
Chapter: Illustrating the Laws of Attraction

It is evident to you now that Maggie had arrived at a moment in her
life which must be considered by all prudent persons as a great
opportunity for a young woman. Launched into the higher society of St.
Ogg's, with a striking person, which had the advantage of being quite
unfamiliar to the majority of beholders, and with such moderate
assistance of costume as you have seen foreshadowed in Lucy's anxious
colloquy with aunt Pullet, Maggie was certainly at a new
starting-point in life. At Lucy's first evening party, young Torry
fatigued his facial muscles more than usual in order that "the
dark-eyed girl there in the corner" might see him in all the
additional style conferred by his eyeglass; and several young ladies
went home intending to have short sleeves with black lace, and to
plait their hair in a broad coronet at the back of their head,--"That
cousin of Miss Deane's looked so very well." In fact, poor Maggie,
with all her inward consciousness of a painful past and her
presentiment of a troublous future, was on the way to become an object
of some envy,--a topic of discussion in the newly established
billiard-room, and between fair friends who had no secrets from each
other on the subject of trimmings. The Miss Guests, who associated
chiefly on terms of condescension with the families of St. Ogg's, and
were the glass of fashion there, took some exception to Maggie's
manners. She had a way of not assenting at once to the observations
current in good society, and of saying that she didn't know whether
those observations were true or not, which gave her an air of
_gaucherie_, and impeded the even flow of conversation; but it is a
fact capable of an amiable interpretation that ladies are not the
worst disposed toward a new acquaintance of their own sex because she
has points of inferiority. And Maggie was so entirely without those
pretty airs of coquetry which have the traditional reputation of
driving gentlemen to despair that she won some feminine pity for being
so ineffective in spite of her beauty. She had not had many
advantages, poor thing! and it must be admitted there was no
pretension about her; her abruptness and unevenness of manner were
plainly the result of her secluded and lowly circumstances. It was
only a wonder that there was no tinge of vulgarity about her,
considering what the rest of poor Lucy's relations were--an allusion
which always made the Miss Guests shudder a little. It was not
agreeable to think of any connection by marriage with such people as
the Gleggs and the Pullets; but it was of no use to contradict Stephen
when once he had set his mind on anything, and certainly there was no
possible objection to Lucy in herself,--no one could help liking her.
She would naturally desire that the Miss Guests should behave kindly
to this cousin of whom she was so fond, and Stephen would make a great
fuss if they were deficient in civility. Under these circumstances the
invitations to Park House were not wanting; and elsewhere, also, Miss
Deane was too popular and too distinguished a member of society in St.
Ogg's for any attention toward her to be neglected.

Thus Maggie was introduced for the first time to the young lady's
life, and knew what it was to get up in the morning without any
imperative reason for doing one thing more than another. This new
sense of leisure and unchecked enjoyment amidst the soft-breathing
airs and garden-scents of advancing spring--amidst the new abundance
of music, and lingering strolls in the sunshine, and the delicious
dreaminess of gliding on the river--could hardly be without some
intoxicating effect on her, after her years of privation; and even in
the first week Maggie began to be less haunted by her sad memories and
anticipations. Life was certainly very pleasant just now; it was
becoming very pleasant to dress in the evening, and to feel that she
was one of the beautiful things of this spring-time. And there were
admiring eyes always awaiting her now; she was no longer an unheeded
person, liable to be chid, from whom attention was continually
claimed, and on whom no one felt bound to confer any. It was pleasant,
too, when Stephen and Lucy were gone out riding, to sit down at the
piano alone, and find that the old fitness between her fingers and the
keys remained, and revived, like a sympathetic kinship not to be worn
out by separation; to get the tunes she had heard the evening before,
and repeat them again and again until she had found out a way of
producing them so as to make them a more pregnant, passionate language
to her. The mere concord of octaves was a delight to Maggie, and she
would often take up a book of studies rather than any melody, that she
might taste more keenly by abstraction the more primitive sensation of
intervals. Not that her enjoyment of music was of the kind that
indicates a great specific talent; it was rather that her sensibility
to the supreme excitement of music was only one form of that
passionate sensibility which belonged to her whole nature, and made
her faults and virtues all merge in each other; made her affections
sometimes an impatient demand, but also prevented her vanity from
taking the form of mere feminine coquetry and device, and gave it the
poetry of ambition. But you have known Maggie a long while, and need
to be told, not her characteristics, but her history, which is a thing
hardly to be predicted even from the completest knowledge of
characteristics. For the tragedy of our lives is not created entirely
from within. "Character," says Novalis, in one of his questionable
aphorisms,--"character is destiny." But not the whole of our destiny.
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, was speculative and irresolute, and we have
a great tragedy in consequence. But if his father had lived to a good
old age, and his uncle had died an early death, we can conceive
Hamlet's having married Ophelia, and got through life with a
reputation of sanity, notwithstanding many soliloquies, and some moody
sarcasms toward the fair daughter of Polonius, to say nothing of the
frankest incivility to his father-in-law.

Maggie's destiny, then, is at present hidden, and we must wait for it
to reveal itself like the course of an unmapped river; we only know
that the river is full and rapid, and that for all rivers there is the
same final home. Under the charm of her new pleasures, Maggie herself
was ceasing to think, with her eager prefiguring imagination, of her
future lot; and her anxiety about her first interview with Philip was
losing its predominance; perhaps, unconsciously to herself, she was
not sorry that the interview had been deferred.

For Philip had not come the evening he was expected, and Mr. Stephen
Guest brought word that he was gone to the coast,--probably, he
thought, on a sketching expedition; but it was not certain when he
would return. It was just like Philip, to go off in that way without
telling any one. It was not until the twelfth day that he returned, to
find both Lucy's notes awaiting him; he had left before he knew of
Maggie's arrival.

Perhaps one had need be nineteen again to be quite convinced of the
feelings that were crowded for Maggie into those twelve days; of the
length to which they were stretched for her by the novelty of her
experience in them, and the varying attitudes of her mind. The early
days of an acquaintance almost always have this importance for us, and
fill up a larger space in our memory than longer subsequent periods,
which have been less filled with discovery and new impressions. There
were not many hours in those ten days in which Mr. Stephen Guest was
not seated by Lucy's side, or standing near her at the piano, or
accompanying her on some outdoor excursion; his attentions were
clearly becoming more assiduous, and that was what every one had
expected. Lucy was very happy, all the happier because Stephen's
society seemed to have become much more interesting and amusing since
Maggie had been there. Playful discussions--sometimes serious
ones--were going forward, in which both Stephen and Maggie revealed
themselves, to the admiration of the gentle, unobtrusive Lucy; and it
more than once crossed her mind what a charming quartet they should
have through life when Maggie married Philip. Is it an inexplicable
thing that a girl should enjoy her lover's society the more for the
presence of a third person, and be without the slightest spasm of
jealousy that the third person had the conversation habitually
directed to her? Not when that girl is as tranquil-hearted as Lucy,
thoroughly possessed with a belief that she knows the state of her
companions' affections, and not prone to the feelings which shake such
a belief in the absence of positive evidence against it. Besides, it
was Lucy by whom Stephen sat, to whom he gave his arm, to whom he
appealed as the person sure to agree with him; and every day there was
the same tender politeness toward her, the same consciousness of her
wants and care to supply them. Was there really the same? It seemed to
Lucy that there was more; and it was no wonder that the real
significance of the change escaped her. It was a subtle act of
conscience in Stephen that even he himself was not aware of. His
personal attentions to Maggie were comparatively slight, and there had
even sprung up an apparent distance between them, that prevented the
renewal of that faint resemblance to gallantry into which he had
fallen the first day in the boat. If Stephen came in when Lucy was out
of the room, if Lucy left them together, they never spoke to each
other; Stephen, perhaps, seemed to be examining books or music, and
Maggie bent her head assiduously over her work. Each was oppressively
conscious of the other's presence, even to the finger-ends. Yet each
looked and longed for the same thing to happen the next day. Neither
of them had begun to reflect on the matter, or silently to ask, "To
what does all this tend?" Maggie only felt that life was revealing
something quite new to her; and she was absorbed in the direct,
immediate experience, without any energy left for taking account of it
and reasoning about it. Stephen wilfully abstained from
self-questioning, and would not admit to himself that he felt an
influence which was to have any determining effect on his conduct. And
when Lucy came into the room again, they were once more unconstrained;
Maggie could contradict Stephen, and laugh at him, and he could
recommend to her consideration the example of that most charming
heroine, Miss Sophia Western, who had a great "respect for the
understandings of men." Maggie could look at Stephen, which, for some
reason or other she always avoided when they were alone; and he could
even ask her to play his accompaniment for him, since Lucy's fingers
were so busy with that bazaar-work, and lecture her on hurrying the
tempo, which was certainly Maggie's weak point.

One day--it was the day of Philip's return--Lucy had formed a sudden
engagement to spend the evening with Mrs. Kenn, whose delicate state
of health, threatening to become confirmed illness through an attack
of bronchitis, obliged her to resign her functions at the coming
bazaar into the hands of other ladies, of whom she wished Lucy to be
one. The engagement had been formed in Stephen's presence, and he had
heard Lucy promise to dine early and call at six o'clock for Miss
Torry, who brought Mrs. Kenn's request.

"Here is another of the moral results of this idiotic bazaar," Stephen
burst forth, as soon as Miss Torry had left the room,--"taking young
ladies from the duties of the domestic hearth into scenes of
dissipation among urn-rugs and embroidered reticules! I should like to
know what is the proper function of women, if it is not to make
reasons for husbands to stay at home, and still stronger reasons for
bachelors to go out. If this goes on much longer, the bonds of society
will be dissolved."

"Well, it will not go on much longer," said Lucy, laughing, "for the
bazaar is to take place on Monday week."

"Thank Heaven!" said Stephen. "Kenn himself said the other day that he
didn't like this plan of making vanity do the work of charity; but
just as the British public is not reasonable enough to bear direct
taxation, so St. Ogg's has not got force of motive enough to build and
endow schools without calling in the force of folly."

"Did he say so?" said little Lucy, her hazel eyes opening wide with
anxiety. "I never heard him say anything of that kind; I thought he
approved of what we were doing."

"I'm sure he approves _you_," said Stephen, smiling at her
affectionately; "your conduct in going out to-night looks vicious, I
own, but I know there is benevolence at the bottom of it."

"Oh, you think too well of me," said Lucy, shaking her head, with a
pretty blush, and there the subject ended. But it was tacitly
understood that Stephen would not come in the evening; and on the
strength of that tacit understanding he made his morning visit the
longer, not saying good-bye until after four.

Maggie was seated in the drawing-room, alone, shortly after dinner,
with Minny on her lap, having left her uncle to his wine and his nap,
and her mother to the compromise between knitting and nodding, which,
when there was no company, she always carried on in the dining-room
till tea-time. Maggie was stooping to caress the tiny silken pet, and
comforting him for his mistress's absence, when the sound of a
footstep on the gravel made her look up, and she saw Mr. Stephen Guest
walking up the garden, as if he had come straight from the river. It
was very unusual to see him so soon after dinner! He often complained
that their dinner-hour was late at Park House. Nevertheless, there he
was, in his black dress; he had evidently been home, and must have
come again by the river. Maggie felt her cheeks glowing and her heart
beating; it was natural she should be nervous, for she was not
accustomed to receive visitors alone. He had seen her look up through
the open window, and raised his hat as he walked toward it, to enter
that way instead of by the door. He blushed too, and certainly looked
as foolish as a young man of some wit and self-possession can be
expected to look, as he walked in with a roll of music in his hand,
and said, with an air of hesitating improvisation,--

"You are surprised to see me again, Miss Tulliver; I ought to
apologize for coming upon you by surprise, but I wanted to come into
the town, and I got our man to row me; so I thought I would bring
these things from the 'Maid of Artois' for your cousin; I forgot them
this morning. Will you give them to her?"

"Yes," said Maggie, who had risen confusedly with Minny in her arms,
and now, not quite knowing what else to do, sat down again.

Stephen laid down his hat, with the music, which rolled on the floor,
and sat down in the chair close by her. He had never done so before,
and both he and Maggie were quite aware that it was an entirely new
position.

"Well, you pampered minion!" said Stephen, leaning to pull the long
curly ears that drooped over Maggie's arm. It was not a suggestive
remark, and as the speaker did not follow it up by further
development, it naturally left the conversation at a standstill. It
seemed to Stephen like some action in a dream that he was obliged to
do, and wonder at himself all the while,--to go on stroking Minny's
head. Yet it was very pleasant; he only wished he dared look at
Maggie, and that she would look at him,--let him have one long look
into those deep, strange eyes of hers, and then he would be satisfied
and quite reasonable after that. He thought it was becoming a sort of
monomania with him, to want that long look from Maggie; and he was
racking his invention continually to find out some means by which he
could have it without its appearing singular and entailing subsequent
embarrassment. As for Maggie, she had no distinct thought, only the
sense of a presence like that of a closely hovering broad-winged bird
in the darkness, for she was unable to look up, and saw nothing but
Minny's black wavy coat.

But this must end some time, perhaps it ended very soon, and only
_seemed_ long, as a minute's dream does. Stephen at last sat upright
sideways in his chair, leaning one hand and arm over the back and
looking at Maggie. What should he say?

"We shall have a splendid sunset, I think; sha'n't you go out and see
it?"

"I don't know," said Maggie. Then courageously raising her eyes and
looking out of the window, "if I'm not playing cribbage with my
uncle."

A pause; during which Minny is stroked again, but has sufficient
insight not to be grateful for it, to growl rather.

"Do you like sitting alone?"

A rather arch look came over Maggie's face, and, just glancing at
Stephen, she said, "Would it be quite civil to say 'yes'?"

"It _was_ rather a dangerous question for an intruder to ask," said
Stephen, delighted with that glance, and getting determined to stay
for another. "But you will have more than half an hour to yourself
after I am gone," he added, taking out his watch. "I know Mr. Deane
never comes in till half-past seven."

Another pause, during which Maggie looked steadily out of the window,
till by a great effort she moved her head to look down at Minny's back
again, and said,--

"I wish Lucy had not been obliged to go out. We lose our music."

"We shall have a new voice to-morrow night," said Stephen. "Will you
tell your cousin that our friend Philip Wakem is come back? I saw him
as I went home."

Maggie gave a little start,--it seemed hardly more than a vibration
that passed from head to foot in an instant. But the new images
summoned by Philip's name dispersed half the oppressive spell she had
been under. She rose from her chair with a sudden resolution, and
laying Minny on his cushion, went to reach Lucy's large work-basket
from its corner. Stephen was vexed and disappointed; he thought
perhaps Maggie didn't like the name of Wakem to be mentioned to her in
that abrupt way, for he now recalled what Lucy had told him of the
family quarrel. It was of no use to stay any longer. Maggie was
seating herself at the table with her work, and looking chill and
proud; and he--he looked like a simpleton for having come. A
gratuitous, entirely superfluous visit of that sort was sure to make a
man disagreeable and ridiculous. Of course it was palpable to Maggie's
thinking that he had dined hastily in his own room for the sake of
setting off again and finding her alone.

A boyish state of mind for an accomplished young gentleman of
five-and-twenty, not without legal knowledge! But a reference to
history, perhaps, may make it not incredible.

At this moment Maggie's ball of knitting-wool rolled along the ground,
and she started up to reach it. Stephen rose too, and picking up the
ball, met her with a vexed, complaining look that gave his eyes quite
a new expression to Maggie, whose own eyes met them as he presented
the ball to her.

"Good-bye," said Stephen, in a tone that had the same beseeching
discontent as his eyes. He dared not put out his hand; he thrust both
hands into his tail-pockets as he spoke. Maggie thought she had
perhaps been rude.

"Won't you stay?" she said timidly, not looking away, for that would
have seemed rude again.

"No, thank you," said Stephen, looking still into the half-unwilling,
half-fascinated eyes, as a thirsty man looks toward the track of the
distant brook. "The boat is waiting for me. You'll tell your cousin?"

"Yes."

"That I brought the music, I mean?"

"Yes."

"And that Philip is come back?"

"Yes." (Maggie did not notice Philip's name this time.)

"Won't you come out a little way into the garden?" said Stephen, in a
still gentler tone; but the next moment he was vexed that she did not
say "No," for she moved away now toward the open window, and he was
obliged to take his hat and walk by her side. But he thought of
something to make him amends.

"Do take my arm," he said, in a low tone, as if it were a secret.

There is something strangely winning to most women in that offer of
the firm arm; the help is not wanted physically at that moment, but
the sense of help, the presence of strength that is outside them and
yet theirs, meets a continual want of the imagination. Either on that
ground or some other, Maggie took the arm. And they walked together
round the grassplot and under the drooping green of the laburnums, in
the same dim, dreamy state as they had been in a quarter of an hour
before; only that Stephen had had the look he longed for, without yet
perceiving in himself the symptoms of returning reasonableness, and
Maggie had darting thoughts across the dimness,--how came he to be
there? Why had she come out? Not a word was spoken. If it had been,
each would have been less intensely conscious of the other.

"Take care of this step," said Stephen at last.

"Oh, I will go in now," said Maggie, feeling that the step had come
like a rescue. "Good-evening."

In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running back to the
house. She did not reflect that this sudden action would only add to
the embarrassing recollections of the last half-hour. She had no
thought left for that. She only threw herself into the low arm-chair,
and burst into tears.

"Oh, Philip, Philip, I wish we were together again--so quietly--in the
Red Deeps."

Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the boat, and was
soon landed at the wharf. He spent the evening in the billiard-room,
smoking one cigar after another, and losing "lives" at pool. But he
would not leave off. He was determined not to think,--not to admit any
more distinct remembrance than was urged upon him by the perpetual
presence of Maggie. He was looking at her, and she was on his arm.

But there came the necessity of walking home in the cool starlight,
and with it the necessity of cursing his own folly, and bitterly
determining that he would never trust himself alone with Maggie again.
It was all madness; he was in love, thoroughly attached to Lucy, and
engaged,--engaged as strongly as an honorable man need be. He wished
he had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever by
her in this way; she would make a sweet, strange, troublesome,
adorable wife to some man or other, but he would never have chosen her
himself. Did she feel as he did? He hoped she did--not. He ought not
to have gone. He would master himself in future. He would make himself
disagreeable to her, quarrel with her perhaps. Quarrel with her? Was
it possible to quarrel with a creature who had such eyes,--defying and
deprecating, contradicting and clinging, imperious and beseeching,--
full of delicious opposites? To see such a creature subdued by love
for one would be a lot worth having--to another man.

There was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward soliloquy, as
Stephen threw away the end of his last cigar, and thrusting his hands
into his pockets, stalked along at a quieter pace through the
shrubbery. It was not of a benedictory kind.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Maggie is currently living it up with Lucy. She has an actual social life for the first time ever and she's pretty popular in St. Ogg's. Stephen's sisters feel that Maggie's manners are questionable though and lots of people feel sorry for her in town. Maggie is really enjoying herself though and starts playing the piano again. The narrator lets us know that Maggie's ultimate fate is hidden since circumstances are always changing, but the narrator also hints that Maggie's ultimate fate won't be very happy. It's a bit of a contradiction really - basically the narrator knows more than we do. Stephen hangs out with Lucy and Maggie all the time and the group have great conversations. Lucy is happy that Stephen and Maggie get along and can't wait for Maggie to marry Philip so they can all hang out together. But Stephen and Maggie never spoke when they were left alone. The two were hyper-aware of each other's presence, though, and steal looks at one another. Basically the two are only comfortable when Lucy is with them. One day Lucy has to go out and do some stuff for the bazaar. Lucy has gotten roped into the planning committee. Stephen gripes about how this is taking up all her time now. While Lucy is out Stephen comes by unexpectedly. He gives Maggie a flimsy excuse for showing up, telling her he wants to drop off some sheet music. Maggie and Stephen then play some with Lucy's dog. Stephen starts patting the dog while it's sitting on Maggie's lap and the two are sitting really really close together. Stephen and Maggie that is. Though the dog is there too. The two have a very stilted conversation. Stephen brings up Philip and then internally kicks himself for it. Stephen goes to leave and Maggie asks him to stay. Then Stephen says he has to go, but asks Maggie to walk him outside. The two are super attracted to one another. Maggie abruptly ditches Stephen and runs back inside. She wishes she were with Philip again since he was much less confusing to be around than Stephen. Maggie starts to panic about her feelings for Stephen and Stephen is also agitated. He promises to himself that he'll distance himself from Maggie.