“The weather has been unpropitious of late, Miss Hawkins.”

“It has indeed,” said Laura.  “The climate seems to be variable.”

“It is its nature of old, here,” said the daughter—­stating it apparently as a fact, only, and by her manner waving aside all personal responsibility on account of it.  “Is it not so, mamma?”

“Quite so, my child.  Do you like winter, Miss Hawkins?” She said “like” as if she had, an idea that its dictionary meaning was “approve of.”

“Not as well as summer—­though I think all seasons have their charms.”

“It is a very just remark.  The general held similar views.  He considered snow in winter proper; sultriness in summer legitimate; frosts in the autumn the same, and rains in spring not objectionable.  He was not an exacting man.  And I call to mind now that he always admired thunder.  You remember, child, your father always admired thunder?”

“He adored it.”

“No doubt it reminded him of battle,” said Laura.

“Yes, I think perhaps it did.  He had a great respect for Nature.  He often said there was something striking about the ocean.  You remember his saying that, daughter?”

“Yes, often, Mother.  I remember it very well.”

“And hurricanes...  He took a great interest in hurricanes.  And animals.  Dogs, especially—­hunting dogs.  Also comets.  I think we all have our predilections.  I think it is this that gives variety to our tastes.”

Laura coincided with this view.

“Do you find it hard and lonely to be so far from your home and friends, Miss Hawkins?”

“I do find it depressing sometimes, but then there is so much about me here that is novel and interesting that my days are made up more of sunshine than shadow.”

“Washington is not a dull city in the season,” said the young lady.  “We have some very good society indeed, and one need not be at a loss for means to pass the time pleasantly.  Are you fond of watering-places, Miss Hawkins?”

“I have really had no experience of them, but I have always felt a strong desire to see something of fashionable watering-place life.”

“We of Washington are unfortunately situated in that respect,” said the dowager.  “It is a tedious distance to Newport.  But there is no help for it.”

Laura said to herself, “Long Branch and Cape May are nearer than Newport; doubtless these places are low; I’ll feel my way a little and see.”  Then she said aloud: 

“Why I thought that Long Branch—­”

There was no need to “feel” any further—­there was that in both faces before her which made that truth apparent.  The dowager said: 

“Nobody goes there, Miss Hawkins—­at least only persons of no position in society.  And the President.”  She added that with tranquility.

“Newport is damp, and cold, and windy and excessively disagreeable,” said the daughter, “but it is very select.  One cannot be fastidious about minor matters when one has no choice.”