Ernest too departed in a triangular direction leading to the curious old bridge spanning the stream.
"What makes him hang about here so long?" asked Carry. "Has he a girl in the district? Do you think he seems gone on Dawn?"
"Perhaps it's Carry?"
"No such luck. I wish he were. I suppose he has money. They say over where he boards he has a set of rooms to himself, and is very liberal. What would he be doing up here so long?"
"He doesn't publish his business. Perhaps he's staying in this nice quiet nook to write a book or something," I said idly, by way of accounting for his idleness, or the curious might have set to work to discover more of his doings than he wished to get abroad just then.
"He doesn't look much like the fools that write books, but every one is writing one these days. I know of five or six about Noonoon even; it seems to be a craze."
"Perhaps a cycle!"
"I often wonder who is going to read 'em all and do the work."
This brought us to Clay's, Carry supporting me on her arm, and thus ended her discourse.
Dora stayed for tea, but it was a dull meal, as Dawn now appeared desirous of repelling him.