“Yes, and between you and me that’s the one thing I don’t like about ’em. Norah, now; you never quite know if she isn’t getting at you.”
“But you can’t say that of Miss Elizabeth,” said Andy.
“No. No, you can’t say that of Elizabeth.” He paused, and added very confidentially, “I shouldn’t be doing the good little boy as I have been doing the last eight months if you could say that of her.”
Andy stared at him but said nothing, because he could not—all sorts of unheeded incidents were crowding into his mind so quickly that he felt as if it would burst.
“Fact is—I’m on probation. If I behave, I may pay my addresses to Miss Elizabeth Atterton next October. Old Atterton doesn’t want it, but Mrs. does, because Elizabeth would live next door, so to speak, instead of perhaps going off to India or goodness knows where. And I believe the mater would go straight up to heaven in a sort of bust of thankfulness if it ever came off. But I’ve promised on my honour to say nothing to her until next October, so of course I can’t. Rum situation, isn’t it?” And he drew a long whiff of his cigar and leaned back with the consciousness of being interesting.
Andy stared at the stove and still said nothing.
“Queer, ain’t it?” said Stamford, a little surprised at this lack of sympathy.
Then Andy got up.
“Look here,” he said. “I’m in love with Miss Elizabeth Atterton. I want to marry her.”
Stamford gazed at him with unflattering astonishment.