“No, decidedly, I haven't. And after his flight from Campobello it's the last thing I expected to hear of. When did it come out?” “Only within a few days. They've been keeping it rather quiet. Mrs. Pasmer told me herself.” Mrs. Brinkley gave herself a moment for reflection. “Well, if he can stand it, I suppose I can.” “That isn't exactly what people are saying to Mrs. Pasmer, Mrs. Brinkley,” suggested Munt, with his humorous manner. “I dare say they're trying to make her believe that her daughter is sacrificed. That's the way. But she knows better.” “There's no doubt but she's informed herself. She put me through my catechism about the Maverings the day of the picnic down there.” “Do you know them?” “Bridge Mavering and I were at Harvard together.” “Tell me about them.” Mrs. Brinkley listened to Munt's praises of his old friend with an attention superficially divided with the people to whom she bowed and smiled. The room was filling up. “Well,” she said at the end, “he's a sweet young fellow. I hope he likes his Pasmers.” “I guess there's no doubt about his liking one of them--the principal one.” “Yes, if she is the principal one.” There was an implication in everything she said that Dan Mavering had been hoodwinked by Mrs. Pasmer. Mature ladies always like to imply something of the sort in these cases. They like to ignore the prime agency of youth and love, and pretend that marriage is a game that parents play at with us, as if we were in an old comedy; it is a tradition. “Will he take her home to live?” “No. I heard that they're all going abroad--for a year, or two at least.” “Ah! I thought so,” cried Mrs. Brinkley. She looked up with whimsical pleasure in the uncertainty of an old gentleman who is staring hard at her through his glasses. “Well,” she said with a pleasant sharpness, “do you make me out?”