“I can guess,” I said, looking wise.
“What is it?”
“Do you remember what an uneasy, good-for-nothing chap one Charlie Travers was, when he first began to call on a certain young woman with conspicuous regularity?”
“O Charlie, you don’t think he—”
“No, no! Now don’t explode too suddenly. I wouldn’t have him know that I suspect anything for the world. We won’t name any names, but I keep my eyes about me, and I flatter myself I know the symptoms.”
And with these mysterious words, I started for the bank, leaving to Bessie a new and delightful subject for speculation and air-castle building.
George did not come home to supper that day, but that was nothing extraordinary. I was sitting out on the porch, smoking after the meal, and saw him coming up the street.
“Where have you been?” I asked, as he joined me and took a seat.
“None of your business. In town.”
“Is Miss Van well?” I asked mischievously.