“I’ll keep it for him,” said Miss Triscoe, and as Burnamy offered to take the shawl that hung in the hollow of her arm, she let it slip into his hand with an “Oh; thank you,” which seemed also a permission for him to wrap it about her in the chair.

He stood talking before the ladies, but he looked up and down the promenade.  The pivotal girl showed herself at the corner of the music-room, as she had done the day before.  At first she revolved there as if she were shedding her light on some one hidden round the corner; then she moved a few paces farther out and showed herself more obviously alone.  Clearly she was there for Burnamy to come and walk with her; Mrs. March could see that, and she felt that Miss Triscoe saw it too.  She waited for her to dismiss him to his flirtation; but Miss Triscoe kept chatting on, and he kept answering, and making no motion to get away.  Mrs. March began to be as sorry for her as she was ashamed for him.  Then she heard him saying, “Would you like a turn or two?” and Miss Triscoe answering, “Why, yes, thank you,” and promptly getting out of her chair as if the pains they had both been at to get her settled in it were all nothing.

She had the composure to say, “You can leave your shawl with me, Miss Triscoe,” and to receive her fervent, “Oh, thank you,” before they sailed off together, with inhuman indifference to the girl at the corner of the music-room.  Then she sank into a kind of triumphal collapse, from which she roused herself to point her husband to the chair beside her when he happened along.

He chose to be perverse about her romance.  “Well, now, you had better let them alone.  Remember Kendricks.”  He meant one of their young friends whose love-affair they had promoted till his happy marriage left them in lasting doubt of what they had done.  “My sympathies are all with the pivotal girl.  Hadn’t she as much right to him, for the time being, or for good and all, as Miss Triscoe?”

“That depends upon what you think of Burnamy.”

“Well, I don’t like to see a girl have a young man snatched away from her just when she’s made sure of him.  How do you suppose she is feeling now?”

“She isn’t feeling at all.  She’s letting her revolving light fall upon half a dozen other young men by this time, collectively or consecutively.  All that she wants to make sure of is that they’re young men—­or old ones, even.”

March laughed, but not altogether at what his wife said.  “I’ve been having a little talk with Papa Triscoe, in the smoking-room.”

“You smell like it,” said his wife, not to seem too eager:  “Well?”

“Well, Papa Triscoe seems to be in a pout.  He doesn’t think things are going as they should in America.  He hasn’t been consulted, or if he has, his opinion hasn’t been acted upon.”

“I think he’s horrid,” said Mrs. March.  “Who are they?”

“I couldn’t make out, and I couldn’t ask.  But I’ll tell you what I think.”