Perhaps not, but I can't help feeling it. And why shouldn't I, after all? When I was a boy my father was everything to me--after that he was always travelling, and I was left to my own devices. There are so many things that puzzle a chap when there's no one to talk them over with. It's different with girls, I suppose. At first I used to go to my mother: she's always found life simple enough. Visits, and parties, and church--she looks upon church-going as another kind of visiting--well, do you know what she said to me? "In the first place, my dear boy, your trousers are shocking. What you need is a good tailor. Then you ought to take up lawn tennis--and after that, we'll see." Well, that didn't help me much. And then your mother took pity on me. Again and again she's let me sit up half the night, talking things over with her.
Ellen.
And now you and she have got something to say to each other again. What is it, Norbert? Do tell me! Why can't I help you as well as mother?
Norbert.
Perhaps you'd like to do my examination papers for me?
Ellen.
Nonsense; it's not that.--But you don't care for me any more.
Norbert.
You silly child!
Ellen.