"And so Ethel has told you all?" resumed Mr. Basset, cracking another walnut of the fruit which had followed a luxurious dinner.
"Yes, sir, and in doing so has wrung the soul within me."
"Oh, Morley," said Ethel, placing her ungloved hand kindly upon his, "do not talk so mournfully."
"Aye, aye, lad," said Mr. Basset, thinking most of himself, as, with his head on one side, one eye closed, and the other admiring the ruby colour of his wine as it shone between him and the flushed sky, "at my age, though I am not very old, but have many settled habits, it is hard to leave one's native country, and to set out with these tender girls on a long, rough voyage; but needs must—you know the rest."
"And so Ethel and I meet again, only to be separated for ever," exclaimed Morley, while he pressed her hand within his own, and in a tone so mournful that Mr. Basset, who, like every matter-of-fact Englishman, hated scenes, as they worried him, fidgeted in his chair, and said to Ethel:
"Where is Rose? Has she not seen Mr. Ashton yet?"
"She is with the captain in the conservatory, I think."
Morley, who disliked the formality of being termed "Mr. Ashton," glanced at Ethel, and perceived that a blush was burning on her cheek.
"You did not tell me that you had a visitor," said he.
"We had matters of greater moment to think of, Morley, had we not?" asked Ethel, anxiously.