“Yes, Tom, they are,” and my lip quivered a little, while he stalked up and down the room, knocking over a chair with his big overcoat, and nearly upsetting a stand of plants. I think I felt my poverty more at that moment than I had ever done before, but there was nothing I could say, and fortunately for us both Miss Keith just then appeared, saying dinner was ready, and asking if she should send up the soup. What a dinner it was, and Tom did ample justice to it, until suddenly, remembering himself, he said:
“By the way, I must be moderate here, for I have another dinner to eat to-night: one, too, where the fatted calf has been killed.”
Up to this point I had not once thought of Miss Elliston since I found Tom sitting in my room, but now I remembered the handsome dinner table seen through the windows of No. — Grosvenor Square, and felt sure it was to that table Tom had been bidden as a guest; but I would not ask him, and he continued:
“My fellow-traveler from India was an invalid—that Lieut. Elliston of whom I wrote you once. I nursed him through a contagious disease when every one else had deserted him, and he seems to think he owes his life to me, and sticks to me like a burr; while his family, on the strength of that and the little Gordon blood there is in my veins, make much of me, and insist that I shall dine with them to-night; so I must leave you soon, but shall return to-morrow.”
I made no answer, but busied myself with preparing his coffee, and after a moment he went on:
“By the way, Norah, what do you think of Miss Elliston? She wrote you were at the same hotel in Paris.”
“At the same hotel with me? Miss Elliston at the Grand? When?” I asked, in much surprise; and he replied:
“Last September, when you were there with friends. Did you not see her?”
“No,” I answered, “I did not see her, or if I did, I did not know it; and she is much too proud to make herself known to me, a poor music teacher.”
This last I said bitterly, but Tom made no reply, and hardly knowing what I was saying, I added: