“Now, papa, you are not to call Norman conceited,” cried Ethel. “You don’t believe that he is any such thing.”
“Why, not exactly,” said Dr. May, smiling. “The boy has missed it marvellously; but, you see, he has everything that subtle imp would wish to feed upon, and it is no harm to give him a lick with the rough side of the tongue, as your canny Scots grandfather used to say.”
“Ah! if you knew, papa—” began Ethel.
“If I knew?”
“No, no, I must not tell.”
“What, a secret, is there?”
“I wish it was not; I should like to tell you very much, but then, you see, it is Norman’s, and you are to be surprised.”
“Your surprise is likely to be very much like Blanche’s birthday presents, a stage aside.”
“No, I am going to keep it to myself.”
Two or three days after, as Ethel was going to the schoolroom after breakfast, Dr. May beckoned her back to the dining-room, and, with his merry look of significance, said, “Well, ma’am, I have found out your mystery!”