“I see,” said Boardman, showing his teeth, fine and even as grains of pop-corn, in a slight sarcastic smile.  “Sort of poetical justice,” he suggested.

“Well, it is—­sort of,” said Mavering, with a shamefaced consciousness.  “What train are you going back on?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

He hurried back to rejoin the ladies, and Boardman saw him, after some parley and laughter, get into the coupe, from which he inferred that they had turned down the little seat in front, and made him take it; and he inferred that they must be very jolly, sociable girls.

He did not see Mavering again till the train was on its way, when he came in, looking distraughtly about for his friend.  He was again very melancholy, and said dejectedly that they had made him stay to dinner, and had then driven him down to the station, bag and all.  “The old gentleman came too.  I was in hopes I’d find you hanging round somewhere, so that I could introduce you.  They’re awfully nice.  None of that infernal Boston stiffness.  The one you saw me talking with is married, though.”

Boardman was writing out his report from a little book with shorthand notes in it.  There were half a dozen other reporters in the car busy with their work.  A man who seemed to be in authority said to one of them, “Try to throw in a little humour.”

Mavering pulled his hat over his eyes, and leaned his head on the back of his seat, and tried to sleep.

XXIII.

At his father’s agency in Boston he found, the next morning, a letter from him saying that he expected to be down that day, and asking Dan to meet him at the Parker House for dinner.  The letter intimated the elder Mavering’s expectation that his son had reached some conclusion in the matter they had talked of before he left for Campobello.

It gave Dan a shiver of self-disgust and a sick feeling of hopelessness.  He was quite willing now to do whatever his father wished, but he did not see haw he could face him and own his defeat.

When they met, his father did not seem to notice his despondency, and he asked him nothing about the Pasmers, of course.  That would not have been the American way.  Nothing had been said between the father and son as to the special advantages of Campobello for the decision of the question pending when they saw each other last; but the son knew that the father guessed why he chose that island for the purpose; and now the elder knew that if the younger had anything to tell him he would tell it, and if he had not he would keep it.  It was tacitly understood that there was no objection on the father’s part to Miss Pasmer; in fact, there had been a glimmer of humorous intelligence in his eye when the son said he thought he should run down to Bar Harbour, and perhaps to Campobello, but he had said nothing to betray his consciousness.

They met in the reading-room at Parker’s, and Dan said, “Hello, father,” and his father answered, “Well, Dan;” and they shyly touched the hands dropped at their sides as they pressed together in the crowd.  The father gave his boy a keen glance, and then took the lead into the dining-room, where he chose a corner table, and they disposed of their hats on the window-seat.