“Are n’t you sure that it is love, my boy?” asked the captain.
“No,” replied Hugh. “I am impressed, however, that my interest in Ethel Horton is genuine, and I know that whatever I say to her will be sincere.”
“Well, you had better say it pretty quick,” observed the captain, gravely. “My wife tells me that the Englishman will be here to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” repeated Hugh, looking at the captain in surprise.
“To-morrow,” repeated the captain, “and I fancy that, with all his English traits, bad manners, and poor taste, he will not dilly-dally as you have about asking a girl like Ethel Horton to become his wife.”
Hugh made no reply, but all day long he kept thinking of Ethel Horton. Sometimes Marie Hampton’s deep blue eyes would look at him from under their long lashes, and he would fancy that in their pleading sweetness he beheld a fascination that lost itself in mystery. He put it away from him, however, and went on thinking of Ethel.
That evening found him at the Grove. Ethel’s greeting was all that a hesitating lover could desire. She was seated in an easy chair on the wide veranda overlooking the terraced lawn and the lake. The cool breezes from the far-away foothills came gently down, gladdening the landscape with their refreshing breath.
Hugh seated himself near her, and they soon fell into a pleasant conversation. He fancied that there was less restraint in her manner and voice than usual, but in her soft brown eyes there was still a look of sadness. The fun-loving girl he had first known was now a subdued and saddened woman.
“I have something that I have long wanted to say to you,” said Hugh.
“Indeed?” she asked, listlessly, raising her eyes to his face.