Norah drew a long breath, and Wally gave an irrepressible whistle of delight.
“Lucky dog—I’m so glad!” he cried. “Oh, why can’t I be eighteen!”
“There will be plenty of fighting after you are eighteen,” Mr. Linton said. “This isn’t going to be any lightning business. But that’s not all, Norah. Your old father has to pack up, too. I must go to England.”
“Daddy! You!”
The voice was a cry. Then Norah shut her lips tightly, and said nothing more, looking at her father.
“It’s business,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t want to go, my girl. It may not take me long.”
There was a long pause.
“I can’t ask to go,” said Norah at last, rather breathlessly. “It’s too big a thing—not like a trip to Melbourne or Sydney. I know it would cost a fearful lot of money—and there are other things. It’s—it’s all right, Daddy, if you say so—only I want to know. Have I got to stay behind?”
There was no answer. Jim was watching the set, childish face pitifully, longing to help, and powerless. Norah got up from the arm of her father’s chair at length, and turned her face away.
“It’s—it’s quite all right, Daddy,” she said, unsteadily. “I understand. Don’t go worrying.”