“Well!”

The young men came in, Mavering with his nervous laugh first, and then Boardman with his twinkling black eyes, and his main-force self-possession.

“We couldn’t go away as far as New London without coming to see whether you had really survived Class Day,” said the former, addressing his solicitude to Mrs. Pasmer.  “I tried to find out from, Mrs. Saintsbury, but she was very noncommittal.”  He laughed again, and shook hands with Alice, whom he now included in his inquiry.

“I’m glad she was,” said Mrs. Pasmer—­inwardly wondering what he meant by going to New London—­“if it sent you to ask in person.”  She made them sit down; and she made as little as possible of the young ceremony they threw into the transaction.  To be cosy, to be at ease instantly, was Mrs. Pasmer’s way.  “We’ve not only survived, we’ve taken a new lease of life from Class Day.  I’d for gotten how charming it always was.  Or perhaps it didn’t use to be so charming?  I don’t believe they have anything like it in Europe.  Is it always so brilliant?”

“I don’t know,” said Mavering.  “I really believe it was rather a nice one.”

“Oh, we were both enraptured,” cried Mrs. Pasmer.

Alice added a quiet “Yes, indeed,” and her mother went on—­

“And we thought the Beck Hall spread was the crowning glory of the whole affair.  We owe ever so much to your kindness.”

“Oh, not at all,” said Mavering.

“But we were talking afterward, Alice and I, about the sudden transformation of all that disheveled crew around the Tree into the imposing swells—­may I say howling swells?—­”

“Yes, do say ‘howling,’ Mrs. Pasmer!” implored the young man.

“—­whom we met afterward at the spread,” she concluded.  “How did you manage it all?  Mr. Irving in the ‘Lyons Mail’ was nothing to it.  We thought we had walked directly over from the Tree; and there you were, all ready to receive us, in immaculate evening dress.”

“It was pretty quick work,” modestly admitted the young man.  “Could you recognise any one in that hurly-burly round the Tree?”

“We didn’t till you rose, like a statue of Victory, and began grabbing for the spoils from the heads and shoulders of your friends.  Who was your pedestal?”

Mavering put his hand on his friend’s broad shoulder, and gave him a playful push.

Boardman turned up his little black eyes at him, with a funny gleam in them.

“Poor Mr. Boardman!” said Mrs. Pasmer.

“It didn’t hurt him a bit,” said Mavering, pushing him.  “He liked it.”

“Of course he did,” said Mrs. Pasmer, implying, in flattery of Mavering, that Boardman might be glad of the distinction; and now Boardman looked as if he were not.  She began to get away in adding, “But I wonder you don’t kill each other.”

“Oh, we’re not so easily killed,” said Mavering.