There was a pause, and they walked slowly on.
“Arthur,” said Graeme, in a low voice. “Do you think Harry is—quite steady?”
“Steady,” repeated Arthur in a surprised and shocked tone. “Why should you doubt it?”
Graeme strove to speak quietly, but her hand trembled on her brother’s arm, and he knew it cost her an effort.
“I dare say there is no cause for doubt. Still, I thought I ought to speak to you. You will know better than I; and you must not think that I am unkind in speaking thus about Harry.”
“You unkind! No; I should think two or three things before I thought that. But tell me why you have any fears?”
“You know, Arthur, Harry has been very late in coming home, a good many times lately; and sometimes he has not come at all. And once or twice—more indeed—he has been excited, more than excited—and—”
Graeme could not go on.
“Still, Graeme, I do not think there is any real cause for apprehension. He is young and full of spirit, and his society is sought after—too much for his good, I dare say. But he has too much sense to give us any real cause for uneasiness on that ground. Why, Graeme, in P street Harry is thought much of for his sense and talent.”
Graeme sighed. There came into her mind something that her father had once said, about gallant ships being wrecked at last. But she did not speak.