XXXV.

People came to the first of Mrs. James Bellingham’s receptions with the expectation of pleasure which the earlier receptions of the season awaken even in the oldest and wisest.  But they tried to dissemble their eagerness in a fashionable tardiness.  “We get later and later,” said Mrs. Brinkley to John Munt, as she sat watching the slow gathering of the crowd.  By half-past eleven it had not yet hidden Mrs. Bellingham, where she stood near the middle of the room, from the pleasant corner they had found after accidentally arriving together.  Mr. Brinkley had not come; he said he might not be too old for receptions, but he was too good; in either case he preferred to stay at home.  “We used to come at nine o’clock, and now we come at I’m getting into a quotation from Mother Goose, I think.”

“I thought it was Browning,” said Munt, with his witticism manner.  Neither he nor Mrs. Brinkley was particularly glad to be together, but at Mrs. James Bellingham’s it was well not to fling any companionship away till you were sure of something else.  Besides, Mrs. Brinkley was indolent and good-natured, and Munt was active and good-natured, and they were well fitted to get on for ten or fifteen minutes.  While they talked she kept an eye out for other acquaintance, and he stood alert to escape at the first chance.  “How is it we are here so early—­or rather you are?” she pursued irrelevantly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Munt, accepting the implication of his superior fashion with pleasure.  “I never mind being among the first.  It’s rather interesting to see people come in—­don’t you think?”

“That depends a good deal on the people.  I don’t find a great variety in their smirks and smiles to Mrs. Bellingham; I seem to be doing them all myself.  And there’s a monotony about their apprehension and helplessness when they’re turned adrift that’s altogether too much like my own.  No, Mr. Munt, I can’t agree with you that it’s interesting to see people come in.  It’s altogether too autobiographical.  What else have you to suggest?”

“I’m afraid I’m at the end of my string,” said Munt.  “I suppose we shall see the Pasmers and young Mavering here to-night.”

Mrs. Brinkley turned and looked sharply at him.

“You’ve heard of the engagement?” he asked.

“No, decidedly, I haven’t.  And after his flight from Campobello it’s the last thing I expected to hear of.  When did it come out?”

“Only within a few days.  They’ve been keeping it rather quiet.  Mrs. Pasmer told me herself.”

Mrs. Brinkley gave herself a moment for reflection.  “Well, if he can stand it, I suppose I can.”

“That isn’t exactly what people are saying to Mrs. Pasmer, Mrs. Brinkley,” suggested Munt, with his humorous manner.

“I dare say they’re trying to make her believe that her daughter is sacrificed.  That’s the way.  But she knows better.”