The mother stood watching the two young men from the window as they made their way across the square together. She had now, for some reason; no apparent scruple in being seen to do so.
“How ridiculous that stout little Mr. Boardman is with him!” said Mrs. Pasmer. “He hardly comes up to his shoulder. Why in the world should he have brought him?”
“I thought he was very pleasant,” said the girl.
“Yes, yes, of course. And I suppose he'd have felt that it was rather pointed coming alone.”
“Pointed?”
“Young men are so queer! Did you like that kind of collar he had on?”
“I didn't notice it.”
“So very, very high.”
“I suppose he has rather a long neck.”
“Well, what did you think of his urging us to go to the race? Do you think he meant it? Do you think he intended it for an invitation?”
“I don't think he meant anything; or, if he did, I think he didn't know what.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pasmer vaguely; “that must be what Mrs. Saintsbury meant by the artistic temperament.”
“I like people to be sincere, and not to say things they don't mean, or don't know whether they mean or not,” said Alice.
“Yes, of course, that's the best way,” admitted Mrs. Pasmer. “It's the only way,” she added, as if it were her own invariable practice. Then she added further, “I wonder what he did mean?”
She began to yawn, for after her simulation of vivid interest in them the visit of the young men had fatigued her. In the midst of her yawn her daughter went out of the room, with an impatient gesture, and she suspended the yawn long enough to smile, and then finished it.
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