“And what a fairy scene it was at the spread!” said Mrs. Pasmer, turning to Boardman.  She had already talked its splendours over with Mavering the same evening.  “I thought we should never get out of the Hall; but when we did get out of the window upon that tapestried platform, and down on the tennis-ground, with Turkey rugs to hide the bare spots in it—­” She stopped as people do when it is better to leave the effect to the listener’s imagination.

“Yes, I think it was rather nice,” said Boardman.

“Nice?” repeated Mrs. Pasmer; and she looked at Mavering.  “Is that the famous Harvard Indifferentism?”

“No, no, Mrs. Pasmer!  It’s just his personal envy.  He wasn’t in the spread, and of course he doesn’t like to hear any one praise it.  Go on!” They all laughed.

“Well, even Mr. Boardman will admit,” said Mrs. Pasmer; “that nothing could have been prettier than that pavilion at the bottom of the lawn, and the little tables scattered about over it, and all those charming young creatures under that lovely evening sky.”

“Ah!  Even Boardman can’t deny that.  We did have the nicest crowd; didn’t we?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Pasmer, playfully checking herself in a ready adhesion, “that depends a good deal upon where Mr. Boardman’s spread was.”

“Thank you,” said Boardman.

“He wasn’t spreading anywhere,” cried his friend.  “Except himself—­he was spreading himself everywhere.”

“Then I think I should prefer to remain neutral,” said Mrs. Pasmer, with a mock prudence which pleased the young men.  In the midst of the pleasure the was giving and feeling she was all the time aware that her daughter had contributed but one remark to the conversation, and that she must be seeming very stiff and cold.  She wondered what that meant, and whether she disliked this little Mr. Boardman, or whether she was again trying to punish Mr:  Mavering for something, and, if so, what it was.  Had he offended her in some way the other day?  At any rate, she had no right to show it.  She longed for some chance to scold the girl, and tell her that it would not do, and make her talk.  Mr. Mavering was merely a friendly acquaintance, and there could be no question of anything personal.  She forgot that between young people the social affair is always trembling to the personal affair.

In the little pause which these reflections gave her mother, the girl struck in, with the coolness that always astonished Mrs. Pasmer, and as if she had been merely waiting till some phase of the talk interested her.

“Are many of the students going to the race?” she asked Boardman.

“Yes; nearly everybody.  That is—­”

“The race?” queried Mrs. Pasmer.

“Yes, at New London,” Mavering broke in.  “Don’t you know?  The University race—­Harvard and Yale.”

“Oh—­oh yes,” cried Mrs. Pasmer, wondering how her daughter should know about the race, and she not.  “Had they talked it over together on Class Day?” she asked herself.  She felt herself, in spite of her efforts to keep even with them; left behind and left out, as later age must be distanced and excluded by youth.  “Are you gentlemen going to row?” she asked Mavering.