“Especially the girls,” said Trafford, with a smile. “They’ll be delighted to welcome their prime favorite back. I hope you’ve come back heart-whole, old man?”
Norman reddened under his tan, and Trafford, noticing his sudden confusion, looked at him questioningly. “Got any confession to make, my dear boy?” he said. “Do you feel inclined to sing, ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’?”
The red still remained in Norman’s face. “I haven’t left a girl behind me in that sense,” he said. “I wish I had. I mean—I’m afraid I can’t tell you all about it, Traff; but I’ve been hard hit; so hard hit that the place feels sore.”
“I’m sorry,” said Trafford, quietly, and with ready sympathy. “What went wrong?”
Norman pulled at his cigar. “It was some one I met abroad,” he said. “She was the loveliest, sweetest— But you don’t want me to rave about her. I was madly in love. I’m madly in love still; but it wasn’t any use. She said, ‘No,’ and—and I came away and left her. I’ve been trying to forget her, but I haven’t succeeded very well. I suppose I shall some day—when I’m ninety, or thereabouts.”
“Poor old chap!” said Trafford. “You’ll tell me all about it some day.”
“Well, perhaps I may,” said Norman.
“And now what are your plans?” said Trafford.
“Well, I haven’t got any. I shall run down to see the mother to-morrow; she doesn’t know I’ve come back.”
“I’m almost glad of that,” said Trafford; “because you can’t go to-morrow. I want you, and can’t spare you, at any rate, until the evening.”