“No; you’d better, when you go down.  They’ve just come into the dining-room.  The girl looks like death.”

“Well, I’ll talk to her about Mavering.  That’ll cheer her up.”

Mrs. Brinkley looked at him for an instant as if she really thought him capable of it.  Then she joined him in his laugh.

Mrs. Brinkley had theorised Alice Pasmer as simply and primitively selfish, like the rest of the Pasmers in whom the family traits prevailed.

When Mavering stopped coming to her house after his engagement she justly suspected that it was because Alice had forbidden him, and she had rejoiced at the broken engagement as an escape for Dan; she had frankly said so, and she had received him back into full favour at the first moment in Washington.  She liked Miss Anderson, and she had hoped, with the interest which women feel in every such affair, that her flirtation with him might become serious.  But now this had apparently not happened.  Julia Anderson was gone with mystifying precipitation, and Alice Pasmer had come with an unexpectedness which had the aspect of fatality.

Mrs. Brinkley felt bound, of course, since there was no open enmity between them, to meet the Pasmers on the neutral ground of the Hygeia with conventional amiability.  She was really touched by the absent wanness of the girls look, and by the later-coming recognition which shaped her mouth into a pathetic snide.  Alice did not look like death quite, as Mrs. Brinkley had told her husband, with the necessity her sex has for putting its superlatives before its positives; but she was pale and thin, and she moved with a languid step when they all met at night after Mrs. Brinkley had kept out of the Pasmers’ way during the day.

“She has been ill all the latter part of the winter,” said Mrs. Pasmer to Mrs. Brinkley that night in the corner of the spreading hotel parlours, where they found themselves.  Mrs. Pasmer did not look well herself; she spoke with her eyes fixed anxiously on the door Alice had just passed out of.  “She is going to bed, but I know I shall find her awake whenever I go.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Brinkley, “this soft, heavy sea air will put her to sleep.”  She tried to speak drily and indifferently, but she could not; she was, in fact, very much interested by the situation, and she was touched, in spite of her distaste for them both, by the evident unhappiness of mother and daughter.  She knew what it came from, and she said to herself that they deserved it; but this did not altogether fortify her against their pathos.  “I can hardly keep awake myself,” she added gruffly.

“I hope it may help her,” said Mrs. Pasmer; “the doctor strongly urged our coming.”

“Mr. Pasmer isn’t with you,” said Mrs. Brinkley, feeling that it was decent to say something about him.

“No; he was detained.”  Mrs. Pasmer did not explain the cause of his detention, and the two ladies slowly waved their fans a moment in silence.  “Are there many Boston People in the house?” Mrs. Pasmer asked.