“Oh, you wait till you're a Syndicate Correspondent,” said, Mavering, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder, and rising by aid of it. He left Mrs. Pasmer to fill the chasm that had so suddenly yawned between her and Boardman; and while she tumbled into every sort of flowery friendliness and compliment, telling him she should look out for his account of the race with the greatest interest, and expressing the hope that he would get as far as Campobello during the summer, Mavering found some minutes for talk with Alice. He was graver with her--far graver than with her mother--not only because she was a more serious nature, but because they were both young, and youth is not free with youth except by slow and cautious degrees. In that little space of time they talked of pictures, 'a propos' of some on the wall, and of books, because of those on the table. “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Pasmer when they paused, and she felt that her piece of difficult engineering had been quite successful, “Mrs. Saintsbury was telling me what a wonderful connoisseur of etchings your father is.” “I believe he does know something about them,” said the young man modestly. “And he's gone back already?” “Oh yes. He never stays long away from my mother. I shall be going home myself as soon as I get back from the race.” “And shall you spend the summer there?” “Part of it. I always like to do that.” “Perhaps when you get away you'll come as far as Campobello--with Mr. Boardman,” she added. “Has Boardman promised to go?” laughed Mavering. “He will promise anything. Well, I'll come to Campobello if you'll come to New London. Do come, Mrs. Pasmer!” The mother stood watching the two young men from the window as they made their way across the square together. She had now, for some reason; no apparent scruple in being seen to do so. “How ridiculous that stout little Mr. Boardman is with him!” said Mrs. Pasmer. “He hardly comes up to his shoulder. Why in the world should he have brought him?” “I thought he was very pleasant,” said the girl. “Yes, yes, of course. And I suppose he'd have felt that it was rather pointed coming alone.” “Pointed?” “Young men are so queer! Did you like that kind of collar he had on?” “I didn't notice it.” “So very, very high.” “I suppose he has rather a long neck.” “Well, what did you think of his urging us to go to the race? Do you think he meant it? Do you think he intended it for an invitation?” “I don't think he meant anything; or, if he did, I think he didn't know what.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Pasmer vaguely; “that must be what Mrs. Saintsbury meant by the artistic temperament.” “I like people to be sincere, and not to say things they don't mean, or don't know whether they mean or not,” said Alice. “Yes, of course, that's the best way,” admitted Mrs. Pasmer. “It's the only way,” she added, as if it were her own invariable practice. Then she added further, “I wonder what he did mean?”