The old man went on with his work with a little sigh.
"Then he's so pretty!" continued Stella. "It is a shame to call a boy pretty, but that is just what he is."
"Yes," said Mr. Etheridge, grimly. "It is the face of a girl, with all a girl's weakness."
"Hush," said Stella, warningly. "Here he comes. Well, Frank," she said, as he came in, his slim form dressed in boating flannels, his rod in his hand. "What have you been doing—fishing?"
"No," he said, his eyes fixed on her face. "I meant to, but you said that you would come out directly, and so I waited. Are you ready? It doesn't matter—I'll wait. I suppose it's the pudding, or the custards, or the canary wants feeding. I wish there were no puddings or canaries."
"What an impatient boy it is," she exclaimed, with a laugh. "Well, now I'm ready."
"Let's go down to the river," he said. "There's someone fishing there—at least, he's supposed to be fishing, but he keeps his eyes fixed in this direction, so that I don't imagine he is getting much sport."
"What is he like?" said Stella.
"Like?" said Frank. "Oh, a tall, well-made young fellow, in brown velvet. A man with a yellow mustache."
Stella's face flushed, and she glanced round at her uncle.