“You know you do make it so frightfully expensive with your money,” said Mrs. Pasmer, explaining with a prompt effect of having known all along that Boardman was from the West, “You drive us poor people all away.”
“I don't think my money would do it,” said Boardman quietly.
“Oh, you wait till you're a Syndicate Correspondent,” said, Mavering, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder, and rising by aid of it. He left Mrs. Pasmer to fill the chasm that had so suddenly yawned between her and Boardman; and while she tumbled into every sort of flowery friendliness and compliment, telling him she should look out for his account of the race with the greatest interest, and expressing the hope that he would get as far as Campobello during the summer, Mavering found some minutes for talk with Alice. He was graver with her—far graver than with her mother—not only because she was a more serious nature, but because they were both young, and youth is not free with youth except by slow and cautious degrees. In that little space of time they talked of pictures, 'a propos' of some on the wall, and of books, because of those on the table.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Pasmer when they paused, and she felt that her piece of difficult engineering had been quite successful, “Mrs. Saintsbury was telling me what a wonderful connoisseur of etchings your father is.”
“I believe he does know something about them,” said the young man modestly.
“And he's gone back already?”
“Oh yes. He never stays long away from my mother. I shall be going home myself as soon as I get back from the race.”
“And shall you spend the summer there?”
“Part of it. I always like to do that.”
“Perhaps when you get away you'll come as far as Campobello—with Mr. Boardman,” she added.
“Has Boardman promised to go?” laughed Mavering. “He will promise anything. Well, I'll come to Campobello if you'll come to New London. Do come, Mrs. Pasmer!”
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