“Do you know, Ethel,” said Norman, as he knelt on the floor, and tumbled miscellaneous articles out of his bag, “it is my belief that Ernescliffe is in love with her, and that papa thinks so.”
“Dear me!” cried Ethel, starting up. “That is famous. We should always have Margaret at home when he goes to sea!”
“But mind, Ethel, for your life you must not say one word to any living creature.”
“Oh, no, I promise you I won’t, Norman, if you’ll only tell me how you found it out.”
“What first put it in my head was the first evening, while I was undoing the portmanteau; my father leaned on the mantel-shelf, and sighed and muttered, ‘Poor Ernescliffe! I wish it may end well.’ I thought he forgot that I was there, so I would not seem to notice, but I soon saw it was that he meant.”
“How?” cried Ethel eagerly.
“Oh, I don’t know—by Alan’s way.”
“Tell me—I want to know what people do when they are in love.”
“Nothing particular,” said Norman, smiling.
“Did you hear him inquire for her? How did he look?”