“Remember? Of course I do, my dear. Don’t you recollect what jolly feeds of preserved ginger and mango you and I used to have? Ah, it was too bad of you to grow up into a little woman!”
“I don’t think we are any the less good friends, Mr Harley,” said the girl, looking trustingly up in his face.
“Not a bit,” he said. “Do you know, my dear, I think more and more every day that I am going to grow into a staid old bachelor; and if I do I shall have to adopt you as daughter or niece.”
“Indeed, Mr Harley.”
“Yes, indeed, my dear. Nineteen, eh? and I am forty-four. Heigho! how time goes!”
“I had begun to think, Mr Harley—” said Grey, softly. “May I go on?”
“Go on? Of course, my dear. What had you begun to think?”
“That you would marry Helen.”
“Ye-es, several people thought so on shipboard,” he said, dreamily. “Nineteen—twenty-one—forty-four. I’m getting quite an old man now, my dear. Hah!” he said, starting, “I daresay Mademoiselle Helen will have plenty of offers.”
“Yes,” said Grey; “but she should meet with someone firm and strong as well as kind.”