“It’s of no use speaking to a pretty girl,” said he, with decision. “You will only be told to mind your own business. And there’s no harm in Nell.”
“I know that,” retorted his daughter, not spitefully, but with a spinster’s stern solicitude. “I shouldn’t be so much interested in her if I didn’t know that she’s a good little thing. But she’s giddy and thoughtless. I shall really have to advise her uncle to send her back to school again.”
“She won’t go,” said the colonel. “And if she would, old Claris wouldn’t part with her. We must rely on the effect of your sermons, Theodora.”
Father and daughter had carried on this dialogue without including the visitor in the conversation, so that Otto, who prided himself upon being an acute observer, had an opportunity of peeping into the rooms on each side of the passage, as the doors were open, without moving from where he stood.
He was much struck by what he saw: by the carpets worn so threadbare that there was no trace of the pattern to be seen on them; by the carefully-darned table-covers, the worn-out furniture. All was neatly kept and spotlessly clean; all showed a pinched poverty which there was no attempt to hide.
He withdrew with more apologies as soon as the short discussion between father and daughter was ended, and rejoined his friend outside.
“Well,” said Clifford, as Otto turned toward Stroan in silence, “and what kept you so long talking to the severe-looking lady?”
“I wasn’t talking. I was listening,” answered Otto, “and working out in my mind a romance, a pitiful romance, of the kind that is not showy enough for people to care to hear about.”
“What! Do you mean to say that Jordan’s fallen in love with that mature and lean spinster?” asked Clifford in astonishment.
“Oh, dear, no. He’s fallen in love; I’ve found that out; but it is with the usual maid of the inn—nobody half so interesting as Miss Bostal.”