“Cary, you have grown up since you came to London.”
“I feel like somebody’s grandmother,” said I. “But I think I have been growing; to it, Amelia, since I left Brocklebank.”
“Well, you certainly are much less of a child than you were. I will do my best, Cary.” And Amelia looked as if she meant it.
“But take no one into your confidence,” said I.—“Least of all Charlotte.”
“Thank you, I don’t need that warning!” said Amelia, with her languid laugh, as she furled her fan and turned away. And as I passed on the other side I came upon Ephraim Hebblethwaite.
All at once my resolution was taken.
“Come this way, Ephraim,” said I; “I want to show you my Uncle Charles’s new engravings.”
I lifted down the large portfolio, with Ephraim’s help,—I don’t think Ephraim would let a cat jump down by itself if he thought the jump too far,—set it on a little table, and under cover of the engravings I told him the whole story, and all my uneasiness about Hatty. He listened very attentively, but without showing either the surprise or the perplexity which Amelia had done.
“If you suspect rightly,” said he, when I had finished my tale, “the first thing to be done is to get her out of Charles Street.”
“Do you think me too ready to suspect?” I replied.