“Come! it is all a homesick fit, Ethel—never fear the ball. Think of the concert. If it were not for that poor baby of Mrs. Larkins, I should stay myself to hear Sonntag again. You won’t have such another chance.”
“I know, but I think I ought to go—”
George came in, and they could say no more. Both were silent on the subject at breakfast, but when afterwards Flora seized on Ethel, to array her for the theatre, she was able to say, “Flora, please don’t be angry with me—you have been very kind to me, but I mean to go home with papa to-morrow.”
“I declare!” said Flora composedly, “you are as bad as the children at the infant school, crying to go home the instant they see their mothers!”
“No, Flora, but I must go. Thank you for all this pleasure, but I shall have heard Norman’s poem, and then I must go.”
Flora turned her round, looked in her face kindly, kissed her, and said, “My dear, never mind, it will all come right again—only, don’t run away.”
“What will come right?”
“Any little misunderstanding with Norman Ogilvie.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ethel, becoming scarlet.
“My dear, you need not try to hide it. I see that you have got into a fright. You have made a discovery, but that is no reason for running away.”