Only just before dinner did he have the chance of speaking to Stella without being overheard. "I saw you come back," he said to her, a tender inflection in his voice. "Were you tired? Was the basket heavy?"
"Oh, no," she replied mischievously; "I only felt overburdened with virtue. A handsome young man wanted to carry the basket for me, and I would not let him!"
"Thought you might be found out?" he suggested with a chuckle.
"That was about it!" she said, recklessly candid. "Oh, do tell me: was anything settled this afternoon? I know you were all talking me over. Am I to stay here for the rest of my life?"
"Have a little patience," he teased, finding a subtle pleasure in her obvious disappointment with his reply.
That evening, after dinner, he discovered that Stella had a voice. She sang a little song, something about a star, to Aunt Ellen's accompaniment, and though Stella herself was clearly bored by the words of the song, and despite lack of training and feeling, her voice was deep and sweet—well worth cultivation, as he quickly decided. She should have singing lessons before they sailed for India.
The song ended, he found an opportunity to whisper: "That was delightful. Stella—a star! Some day perhaps a star of India?"
"But that's a decoration, isn't it?" she asked, pleased and eager. "And not for women? Have you got it?"
He looked at her intently, narrowing his eyes. "No, I haven't got my star—yet."
"But you will have it—soon?"