Mrs. Corey returned with her daughters in the early days of October, having passed three or four weeks at Intervale after leaving Bar Harbour.  They were somewhat browner than they were when they left town in June, but they were not otherwise changed.  Lily, the elder of the girls, had brought back a number of studies of kelp and toadstools, with accessory rocks and rotten logs, which she would never finish up and never show any one, knowing the slightness of their merit.  Nanny, the younger, had read a great many novels with a keen sense of their inaccuracy as representations of life, and had seen a great deal of life with a sad regret for its difference from fiction.  They were both nice girls, accomplished, well-dressed of course, and well enough looking; but they had met no one at the seaside or the mountains whom their taste would allow to influence their fate, and they had come home to the occupations they had left, with no hopes and no fears to distract them.

In the absence of these they were fitted to take the more vivid interest in their brother’s affairs, which they could see weighed upon their mother’s mind after the first hours of greeting.

“Oh, it seems to have been going on, and your father has never written a word about it,” she said, shaking her head.

“What good would it have done?” asked Nanny, who was little and fair, with rings of light hair that filled a bonnet-front very prettily; she looked best in a bonnet.  “It would only have worried you.  He could not have stopped Tom; you couldn’t, when you came home to do it.”

“I dare say papa didn’t know much about it,” suggested Lily.  She was a tall, lean, dark girl, who looked as if she were not quite warm enough, and whom you always associated with wraps of different aesthetic effect after you had once seen her.

It is a serious matter always to the women of his family when a young man gives them cause to suspect that he is interested in some other woman.  A son-in-law or brother-in-law does not enter the family; he need not be caressed or made anything of; but the son’s or brother’s wife has a claim upon his mother and sisters which they cannot deny.  Some convention of their sex obliges them to show her affection, to like or to seem to like her, to take her to their intimacy, however odious she may be to them.  With the Coreys it was something more than an affair of sentiment.  They were by no means poor, and they were not dependent money-wise upon Tom Corey; but the mother had come, without knowing it, to rely upon his sense, his advice in everything, and the sisters, seeing him hitherto so indifferent to girls, had insensibly grown to regard him as altogether their own till he should be released, not by his marriage, but by theirs, an event which had not approached with the lapse of time.  Some kinds of girls ­they believed that they could readily have chosen a kind ­might have taken him without taking him from them; but this generosity could not be hoped for in such a girl as Miss Lapham.

“Perhaps,” urged their mother, “it would not be so bad.  She seemed an affectionate little thing with her mother, without a great deal of character though she was so capable about some things.”

“Oh, she’ll be an affectionate little thing with Tom too, you may be sure,” said Nanny.  “And that characterless capability becomes the most in tense narrow-mindedness.  She’ll think we were against her from the beginning.”

“She has no cause for that,” Lily interposed, “and we shall not give her any.”

“Yes, we shall,” retorted Nanny.  “We can’t help it; and if we can’t, her own ignorance would be cause enough.”

“I can’t feel that she’s altogether ignorant,” said Mrs. Corey justly.

“Of course she can read and write,” admitted Nanny.

“I can’t imagine what he finds to talk about with her,” said Lily.

“Oh, that’s very simple,” returned her sister.

“They talk about themselves, with occasional references to each other.  I have heard people ‘going on’ on the hotel piazzas.  She’s embroidering, or knitting, or tatting, or something of that kind; and he says she seems quite devoted to needlework, and she says, yes, she has a perfect passion for it, and everybody laughs at her for it; but she can’t help it, she always was so from a child, and supposes she always shall be, ­with remote and minute particulars.  And she ends by saying that perhaps he does not like people to tat, or knit, or embroider, or whatever.  And he says, oh, yes, he does; what could make her think such a thing? but for his part he likes boating rather better, or if you’re in the woods camping.  Then she lets him take up one corner of her work, and perhaps touch her fingers; and that encourages him to say that he supposes nothing could induce her to drop her work long enough to go down on the rocks, or out among the huckleberry bushes; and she puts her head on one side, and says she doesn’t know really.  And then they go, and he lies at her feet on the rocks, or picks huckleberries and drops them in her lap, and they go on talking about themselves, and comparing notes to see how they differ from each other.  And ­”

“That will do, Nanny,” said her mother.

Lily smiled autumnally.  “Oh, disgusting!”

“Disgusting?  Not at all!” protested her sister.  “It’s very amusing when you see it, and when you do it ­”

“It’s always a mystery what people see in each other,” observed Mrs. Corey severely.

“Yes,” Nanny admitted, “but I don’t know that there is much comfort for us in the application.”  “No, there isn’t,” said her mother.

“The most that we can do is to hope for the best till we know the worst.  Of course we shall make the best of the worst when it comes.”

“Yes, and perhaps it would not be so very bad.  I was saying to your father when I was here in July that those things can always be managed.  You must face them as if they were nothing out of the way, and try not to give any cause for bitterness among ourselves.”

“That’s true.  But I don’t believe in too much resignation beforehand.  It amounts to concession,” said Nanny.

“Of course we should oppose it in all proper ways,” returned her mother.

Lily had ceased to discuss the matter.  In virtue of her artistic temperament, she was expected not to be very practical.  It was her mother and her sister who managed, submitting to the advice and consent of Corey what they intended to do.

“Your father wrote me that he had called on Colonel Lapham at his place of business,” said Mrs. Corey, seizing her first chance of approaching the subject with her son.

“Yes,” said Corey.  “A dinner was father’s idea, but he came down to a call, at my suggestion.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Corey, in a tone of relief, as if the statement threw a new light on the fact that Corey had suggested the visit.  “He said so little about it in his letter that I didn’t know just how it came about.”

“I thought it was right they should meet,” explained the son, “and so did father.  I was glad that I suggested it, afterward; it was extremely gratifying to Colonel Lapham.”

“Oh, it was quite right in every way.  I suppose you have seen something of the family during the summer.”

“Yes, a good deal.  I’ve been down at Nantasket rather often.”

Mrs. Corey let her eyes droop.  Then she asked:  “Are they well?”

“Yes, except Lapham himself, now and then.  I went down once or twice to see him.  He hasn’t given himself any vacation this summer; he has such a passion for his business that I fancy he finds it hard being away from it at any time, and he’s made his new house an excuse for staying.”

“Oh yes, his house!  Is it to be something fine?”

“Yes; it’s a beautiful house.  Seymour is doing it.”

“Then, of course, it will be very handsome.  I suppose the young ladies are very much taken up with it; and Mrs. Lapham.”

“Mrs. Lapham, yes.  I don’t think the young ladies care so much about it.”

“It must be for them.  Aren’t they ambitious?” asked Mrs. Corey, delicately feeling her way.

Her son thought a while.  Then he answered with a smile ­

“No, I don’t really think they are.  They are unambitious, I should say.”  Mrs. Corey permitted herself a long breath.  But her son added, “It’s the parents who are ambitious for them,” and her respiration became shorter again.

“Yes,” she said.

“They’re very simple, nice girls,” pursued Corey.  “I think you’ll like the elder, when you come to know her.”

When you come to know her.  The words implied an expectation that the two families were to be better acquainted.

“Then she is more intellectual than her sister?” Mrs. Corey ventured.

“Intellectual?” repeated her son.  “No; that isn’t the word, quite.  Though she certainly has more mind.”

“The younger seemed very sensible.”

“Oh, sensible, yes.  And as practical as she’s pretty.  She can do all sorts of things, and likes to be doing them.  Don’t you think she’s an extraordinary beauty?”

“Yes ­yes, she is,” said Mrs. Corey, at some cost.

“She’s good, too,” said Corey, “and perfectly innocent and transparent.  I think you will like her the better the more you know her.”

“I thought her very nice from the beginning,” said the mother heroically; and then nature asserted itself in her.  “But I should be afraid that she might perhaps be a little bit tiresome at last; her range of ideas seemed so extremely limited.”

“Yes, that’s what I was afraid of.  But, as a matter of fact, she isn’t.  She interests you by her very limitations.  You can see the working of her mind, like that of a child.  She isn’t at all conscious even of her beauty.”

“I don’t believe young men can tell whether girls are conscious or not,” said Mrs. Corey.  “But I am not saying the Miss Laphams are not ­” Her son sat musing, with an inattentive smile on his face.  “What is it?”

“Oh! nothing.  I was thinking of Miss Lapham and something she was saying.  She’s very droll, you know.”

“The elder sister?  Yes, you told me that.  Can you see the workings of her mind too?”

“No; she’s everything that’s unexpected.”  Corey fell into another reverie, and smiled again; but he did not offer to explain what amused him, and his mother would not ask.

“I don’t know what to make of his admiring the girl so frankly,” she said afterward to her husband.  “That couldn’t come naturally till after he had spoken to her, and I feel sure that he hasn’t yet.”

“You women haven’t risen yet ­it’s an evidence of the backwardness of your sex ­to a conception of the Bismarck idea in diplomacy.  If a man praises one woman, you still think he’s in love with another.  Do you mean that because Tom didn’t praise the elder sister so much, he has spoken to her?”

Mrs. Corey refused the consequence, saying that it did not follow.  “Besides, he did praise her.”

“You ought to be glad that matters are in such good shape, then.  At any rate, you can do absolutely nothing.”

“Oh!  I know it,” sighed Mrs. Corey.  “I wish Tom would be a little opener with me.”

“He’s as open as it’s in the nature of an American-born son to be with his parents.  I dare say if you’d asked him plumply what he meant in regard to the young lady, he would have told you ­if he knew.”

“Why, don’t you think he does know, Bromfield?”

“I’m not at all sure he does.  You women think that because a young man dangles after a girl, or girls, he’s attached to them.  It doesn’t at all follow.  He dangles because he must, and doesn’t know what to do with his time, and because they seem to like it.  I dare say that Tom has dangled a good deal in this instance because there was nobody else in town.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I throw out the suggestion.  And it strikes me that a young lady couldn’t do better than stay in or near Boston during the summer.  Most of the young men are here, kept by business through the week, with evenings available only on the spot, or a few miles off.  What was the proportion of the sexes at the seashore and the mountains?”

“Oh, twenty girls at least for even an excuse of a man.  It’s shameful.”

“You see, I am right in one part of my theory.  Why shouldn’t I be right in the rest?”

“I wish you were.  And yet I can’t say that I do.  Those things are very serious with girls.  I shouldn’t like Tom to have been going to see those people if he meant nothing by it.”

“And you wouldn’t like it if he did.  You are difficult, my dear.”  Her husband pulled an open newspaper toward him from the table.

“I feel that it wouldn’t be at all like him to do so,” said Mrs. Corey, going on to entangle herself in her words, as women often do when their ideas are perfectly clear.  “Don’t go to reading, please, Bromfield!  I am really worried about this matter I must know how much it means.  I can’t let it go on so.  I don’t see how you can rest easy without knowing.”

“I don’t in the least know what’s going to become of me when I die; and yet I sleep well,” replied Bromfield Corey, putting his newspaper aside.

“Ah! but this is a very different thing.”

“So much more serious?  Well, what can you do?  We had this out when you were here in the summer, and you agreed with me then that we could do nothing.  The situation hasn’t changed at all.”

“Yes, it has; it has continued the same,” said Mrs. Corey, again expressing the fact by a contradiction in terms.  “I think I must ask Tom outright.”

“You know you can’t do that, my dear.”

“Then why doesn’t he tell us?”

“Ah, that’s what he can’t do, if he’s making love to Miss Irene ­that’s her name, I believe ­on the American plan.  He will tell us after he has told her.  That was the way I did.  Don’t ignore our own youth, Anna.  It was a long while ago, I’ll admit.”

“It was very different,” said Mrs. Corey, a little shaken.

“I don’t see how.  I dare say Mamma Lapham knows whether Tom is in love with her daughter or not; and no doubt Papa Lapham knows it at second hand.  But we shall not know it until the girl herself does.  Depend upon that.  Your mother knew, and she told your father; but my poor father knew nothing about it till we were engaged; and I had been hanging about ­dangling, as you call it ­”

“No, no; you called it that.”

“Was it I? ­for a year or more.”

The wife could not refuse to be a little consoled by the image of her young love which the words conjured up, however little she liked its relation to her son’s interest in Irene Lapham.  She smiled pensively.  “Then you think it hasn’t come to an understanding with them yet?”

“An understanding?  Oh, probably.”

“An explanation, then?”

“The only logical inference from what we’ve been saying is that it hasn’t.  But I don’t ask you to accept it on that account.  May I read now, my dear?”

“Yes, you may read now,” said Mrs. Corey, with one of those sighs which perhaps express a feminine sense of the unsatisfactoriness of husbands in general, rather than a personal discontent with her own.

“Thank you, my dear; then I think I’ll smoke too,” said Bromfield Corey, lighting a cigar.

She left him in peace, and she made no further attempt upon her son’s confidence.  But she was not inactive for that reason.  She did not, of course, admit to herself, and far less to others, the motive with which she went to pay an early visit to the Laphams, who had now come up from Nantasket to Nankeen Square.  She said to her daughters that she had always been a little ashamed of using her acquaintance with them to get money for her charity, and then seeming to drop it.  Besides, it seemed to her that she ought somehow to recognise the business relation that Tom had formed with the father; they must not think that his family disapproved of what he had done.  “Yes, business is business,” said Nanny, with a laugh.  “Do you wish us to go with you again?”

“No; I will go alone this time,” replied the mother with dignity.

Her coupe now found its way to Nankeen Square without difficulty, and she sent up a card, which Mrs. Lapham received in the presence of her daughter Penelope.

“I presume I’ve got to see her,” she gasped.

“Well, don’t look so guilty, mother,” joked the girl; “you haven’t been doing anything so very wrong.”

“It seems as if I had.  I don’t know what’s come over me.  I wasn’t afraid of the woman before, but now I don’t seem to feel as if I could look her in the face.  He’s been coming here of his own accord, and I fought against his coming long enough, goodness knows.  I didn’t want him to come.  And as far forth as that goes, we’re as respectable as they are; and your father’s got twice their money, any day.  We’ve no need to go begging for their favour.  I guess they were glad enough to get him in with your father.”

“Yes, those are all good points, mother,” said the girl; “and if you keep saying them over, and count a hundred every time before you speak, I guess you’ll worry through.”

Mrs. Lapham had been fussing distractedly with her hair and ribbons, in preparation for her encounter with Mrs. Corey.  She now drew in a long quivering breath, stared at her daughter without seeing her, and hurried downstairs.  It was true that when she met Mrs. Corey before she had not been awed by her; but since then she had learned at least her own ignorance of the world, and she had talked over the things she had misconceived and the things she had shrewdly guessed so much that she could not meet her on the former footing of equality.  In spite of as brave a spirit and as good a conscience as woman need have, Mrs. Lapham cringed inwardly, and tremulously wondered what her visitor had come for.  She turned from pale to red, and was hardly coherent in her greetings; she did not know how they got to where Mrs. Corey was saying exactly the right things about her son’s interest and satisfaction in his new business, and keeping her eyes fixed on Mrs. Lapham’s, reading her uneasiness there, and making her feel, in spite of her indignant innocence, that she had taken a base advantage of her in her absence to get her son away from her and marry him to Irene.  Then, presently, while this was painfully revolving itself in Mrs. Lapham’s mind, she was aware of Mrs. Corey’s asking if she was not to have the pleasure of seeing Miss Irene.

“No; she’s out, just now,” said Mrs. Lapham.  “I don’t know just when she’ll be in.  She went to get a book.”  And here she turned red again, knowing that Irene had gone to get the book because it was one that Corey had spoken of.

“Oh!  I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Corey.  “I had hoped to see her.  And your other daughter, whom I never met?”

“Penelope?” asked Mrs. Lapham, eased a little.  “She is at home.  I will go and call her.”  The Laphams had not yet thought of spending their superfluity on servants who could be rung for; they kept two girls and a man to look after the furnace, as they had for the last ten years.  If Mrs. Lapham had rung in the parlour, her second girl would have gone to the street door to see who was there.  She went upstairs for Penelope herself, and the girl, after some rebellious derision, returned with her.

Mrs. Corey took account of her, as Penelope withdrew to the other side of the room after their introduction, and sat down, indolently submissive on the surface to the tests to be applied, and following Mrs. Corey’s lead of the conversation in her odd drawl.

“You young ladies will be glad to be getting into your new house,” she said politely.

“I don’t know,” said Penelope.  “We’re so used to this one.”

Mrs. Corey looked a little baffled, but she said sympathetically, “Of course, you will be sorry to leave your old home.”

Mrs. Lapham could not help putting in on behalf of her daughters:  “I guess if it was left to the girls to say, we shouldn’t leave it at all.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Corey; “are they so much attached?  But I can quite understand it.  My children would be heart-broken too if we were to leave the old place.”  She turned to Penelope.  “But you must think of the lovely new house, and the beautiful position.”

“Yes, I suppose we shall get used to them too,” said Penelope, in response to this didactic consolation.

“Oh, I could even imagine your getting very fond of them,” pursued Mrs. Corey patronisingly.  “My son has told me of the lovely outlook you’re to have over the water.  He thinks you have such a beautiful house.  I believe he had the pleasure of meeting you all there when he first came home.”

“Yes, I think he was our first visitor.”

“He is a great admirer of your house,” said Mrs. Corey, keeping her eyes very sharply, however politely, on Penelope’s face, as if to surprise there the secret of any other great admiration of her son’s that might helplessly show itself.

“Yes,” said the girl, “he’s been there several times with father; and he wouldn’t be allowed to overlook any of its good points.”

Her mother took a little more courage from her daughter’s tranquillity.

“The girls make such fun of their father’s excitement about his building, and the way he talks it into everybody.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Corey, with civil misunderstanding and inquiry.

Penelope flushed, and her mother went on:  “I tell him he’s more of a child about it than any of them.”

“Young people are very philosophical nowadays,” remarked Mrs. Corey.

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Lapham.  “I tell them they’ve always had everything, so that nothing’s a surprise to them.  It was different with us in our young days.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Corey, without assenting.

“I mean the Colonel and myself,” explained Mrs. Lapham.

“Oh yes ­yes!” said Mrs. Corey.

“I’m sure,” the former went on, rather helplessly, “we had to work hard enough for everything we got.  And so we appreciated it.”

“So many things were not done for young people then,” said Mrs. Corey, not recognising the early-hardships standpoint of Mrs. Lapham.  “But I don’t know that they are always the better for it now,” she added vaguely, but with the satisfaction we all feel in uttering a just commonplace.

“It’s rather hard living up to blessings that you’ve always had,” said Penelope.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Corey distractedly, and coming back to her slowly from the virtuous distance to which she had absented herself.  She looked at the girl searchingly again, as if to determine whether this were a touch of the drolling her son had spoken of.  But she only added:  “You will enjoy the sunsets on the Back Bay so much.”  “Well, not unless they’re new ones,” said Penelope.  “I don’t believe I could promise to enjoy any sunsets that I was used to, a great deal.”

Mrs. Corey looked at her with misgiving, hardening into dislike.  “No,” she breathed vaguely.  “My son spoke of the fine effect of the lights about the hotel from your cottage at Nantasket,” she said to Mrs. Lapham.

“Yes, they’re splendid!” exclaimed that lady.  “I guess the girls went down every night with him to see them from the rocks.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Corey, a little dryly; and she permitted herself to add:  “He spoke of those rocks.  I suppose both you young ladies spend a great deal of your time on them when you’re there.  At Nahant my children were constantly on them.”

“Irene likes the rocks,” said Penelope.  “I don’t care much about them, ­especially at night.”

“Oh, indeed!  I suppose you find it quite as well looking at the lights comfortably from the veranda.”

“No; you can’t see them from the house.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Corey.  After a perceptible pause, she turned to Mrs. Lapham.  “I don’t know what my son would have done for a breath of sea air this summer, if you had not allowed him to come to Nantasket.  He wasn’t willing to leave his business long enough to go anywhere else.”

“Yes, he’s a born business man,” responded Mrs. Lapham enthusiastically.  “If it’s born in you, it’s bound to come out.  That’s what the Colonel is always saying about Mr. Corey.  He says it’s born in him to be a business man, and he can’t help it.”  She recurred to Corey gladly because she felt that she had not said enough of him when his mother first spoke of his connection with the business.  “I don’t believe,” she went on excitedly, “that Colonel Lapham has ever had anybody with him that he thought more of.”

“You have all been very kind to my son,” said Mrs. Corey in acknowledgment, and stiffly bowing a little, “and we feel greatly indebted to you.  Very much so.”  At these grateful expressions Mrs. Lapham reddened once more, and murmured that it had been very pleasant to them, she was sure.  She glanced at her daughter for support, but Penelope was looking at Mrs. Corey, who doubtless saw her from the corner of her eyes, though she went on speaking to her mother.

“I was sorry to hear from him that Mr. ­Colonel? ­Lapham had not been quite well this summer.  I hope he’s better now?”

“Oh yes, indeed,” replied Mrs. Lapham; “he’s all right now.  He’s hardly ever been sick, and he don’t know how to take care of himself.  That’s all.  We don’t any of us; we’re all so well.”

“Health is a great blessing,” sighed Mrs. Corey.

“Yes, so it is.  How is your oldest daughter?” inquired Mrs. Lapham.  “Is she as delicate as ever?”

“She seems to be rather better since we returned.”  And now Mrs. Corey, as if forced to the point, said bunglingly that the young ladies had wished to come with her, but had been detained.  She based her statement upon Nanny’s sarcastic demand; and, perhaps seeing it topple a little, she rose hastily, to get away from its fall.  “But we shall hope for some ­some other occasion,” she said vaguely, and she put on a parting smile, and shook hands with Mrs. Lapham and Penelope, and then, after some lingering commonplaces, got herself out of the house.

Penelope and her mother were still looking at each other, and trying to grapple with the effect or purport of the visit, when Irene burst in upon them from the outside.

“O mamma! wasn’t that Mrs. Corey’s carriage just drove away?”

Penelope answered with her laugh.  “Yes!  You’ve just missed the most delightful call, ’Rene.  So easy and pleasant every way.  Not a bit stiff!  Mrs. Corey was so friendly!  She didn’t make one feel at all as if she’d bought me, and thought she’d given too much; and mother held up her head as if she were all wool and a yard wide, and she would just like to have anybody deny it.”

In a few touches of mimicry she dashed off a sketch of the scene:  her mother’s trepidation, and Mrs. Corey’s well-bred repose and polite scrutiny of them both.  She ended by showing how she herself had sat huddled up in a dark corner, mute with fear.

“If she came to make us say and do the wrong thing, she must have gone away happy; and it’s a pity you weren’t here to help, Irene.  I don’t know that I aimed to make a bad impression, but I guess I succeeded ­even beyond my deserts.”  She laughed; then suddenly she flashed out in fierce earnest.  “If I missed doing anything that could make me as hateful to her as she made herself to me ­” She checked herself, and began to laugh.  Her laugh broke, and the tears started into her eyes; she ran out of the room, and up the stairs.

“What ­what does it mean?” asked Irene in a daze.

Mrs. Lapham was still in the chilly torpor to which Mrs. Corey’s call had reduced her.  Penelope’s vehemence did not rouse her.  She only shook her head absently, and said, “I don’t know.”

“Why should Pen care what impression she made?  I didn’t suppose it would make any difference to her whether Mrs. Corey liked her or not.”

“I didn’t, either.  But I could see that she was just as nervous as she could be, every minute of the time.  I guess she didn’t like Mrs. Corey any too well from the start, and she couldn’t seem to act like herself.”

“Tell me about it, mamma,” said Irene, dropping into a chair.

Mrs. Corey described the interview to her husband on her return home.  “Well, and what are your inferences?” he asked.

“They were extremely embarrassed and excited ­that is, the mother.  I don’t wish to do her injustice, but she certainly behaved consciously.”

“You made her feel so, I dare say, Anna.  I can imagine how terrible you must have been in the character of an accusing spirit, too lady-like to say anything.  What did you hint?”

“I hinted nothing,” said Mrs. Corey, descending to the weakness of defending herself.  “But I saw quite enough to convince me that the girl is in love with Tom, and the mother knows it.”

“That was very unsatisfactory.  I supposed you went to find out whether Tom was in love with the girl.  Was she as pretty as ever?”

“I didn’t see her; she was not at home; I saw her sister.”

“I don’t know that I follow you quite, Anna.  But no matter.  What was the sister like?”

“A thoroughly disagreeable young woman.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing.  She’s far too sly for that.  But that was the impression.”

“Then you didn’t find her so amusing as Tom does?”

“I found her pert.  There’s no other word for it.  She says things to puzzle you and put you out.”

“Ah, that was worse than pert, Anna; that was criminal.  Well, let us thank heaven the younger one is so pretty.”

Mrs. Corey did not reply directly.  “Bromfield,” she said, after a moment of troubled silence, “I have been thinking over your plan, and I don’t see why it isn’t the right thing.”

“What is my plan?” inquired Bromfield Corey.

“A dinner.”

Her husband began to laugh.  “Ah, you overdid the accusing-spirit business, and this is reparation.”  But Mrs. Corey hurried on, with combined dignity and anxiety ­

“We can’t ignore Tom’s intimacy with them ­it amounts to that; it will probably continue even if it’s merely a fancy, and we must seem to know it; whatever comes of it, we can’t disown it.  They are very simple, unfashionable people, and unworldly; but I can’t say that they are offensive, unless ­unless,” she added, in propitiation of her husband’s smile, “unless the father ­how did you find the father?” she implored.

“He will be very entertaining,” said Corey, “if you start him on his paint.  What was the disagreeable daughter like?  Shall you have her?”

“She’s little and dark.  We must have them all,” Mrs. Corey sighed.  “Then you don’t think a dinner would do?”

“Oh yes, I do.  As you say, we can’t disown Tom’s relation to them, whatever it is.  We had much better recognise it, and make the best of the inevitable.  I think a Lapham dinner would be delightful.”  He looked at her with delicate irony in his voice and smile, and she fetched another sigh, so deep and sore now that he laughed outright.  “Perhaps,” he suggested, “it would be the best way of curing Tom of his fancy, if he has one.  He has been seeing her with the dangerous advantages which a mother knows how to give her daughter in the family circle, and with no means of comparing her with other girls.  You must invite several other very pretty girls.”

“Do you really think so, Bromfield?” asked Mrs. Corey, taking courage a little.  “That might do,” But her spirits visibly sank again.  “I don’t know any other girl half so pretty.”

“Well, then, better bred.”

“She is very lady-like, very modest, and pleasing.”

“Well, more cultivated.”

“Tom doesn’t get on with such people.”

“Oh, you wish him to marry her, I see.”

“No, no.”

“Then you’d better give the dinner to bring them together, to promote the affair.”

“You know I don’t want to do that, Bromfield.  But I feel that we must do something.  If we don’t, it has a clandestine appearance.  It isn’t just to them.  A dinner won’t leave us in any worse position, and may leave us in a better.  Yes,” said Mrs. Corey, after another thoughtful interval, “we must have them ­have them all.  It could be very simple.”

“Ah, you can’t give a dinner under a bushel, if I take your meaning, my dear.  If we do this at all, we mustn’t do it as if we were ashamed of it.  We must ask people to meet them.”

“Yes,” sighed Mrs. Corey.  “There are not many people in town yet,” she added, with relief that caused her husband another smile.  “There really seems a sort of fatality about it,” she concluded religiously.

“Then you had better not struggle against it.  Go and reconcile Lily and Nanny to it as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Corey blanched a little.  “But don’t you think it will be the best thing, Bromfield?”

“I do indeed, my dear.  The only thing that shakes my faith in the scheme is the fact that I first suggested it.  But if you have adopted it, it must be all right, Anna.  I can’t say that I expected it.”

“No,” said his wife, “it wouldn’t do.”