Mrs. Vivian was probably sorry as well, for she had a
slightly confused and preoccupied look--a look from which, even in the
midst of his chagrin, Bernard extracted some entertainment. It was Mrs.
Vivian's intermittent conscience that had been reminded of one of its
lapses; her meeting with Gordon Wright had recalled the least exemplary
episode of her life--the time when she whispered mercenary counsel in
the ear of a daughter who sat, grave and pale, looking at her with eyes
that wondered. Mrs. Vivian blushed a little now, when she met Bernard's
eyes; and to remind herself that she was after all a virtuous woman,
talked as much as possible about superior and harmless things--the
beauty of the autumn weather, the pleasure of seeing French papas
walking about on Sunday with their progeny in their hands, the
peculiarities of the pulpit-oratory of the country as exemplified in
the discourse of a Protestant pasteur whom she had been to hear in the
morning.
When they rose from table and went back into her little drawing-room,
she left her daughter alone for awhile with Bernard. The two were
standing together before the fire; Bernard watched Mrs. Vivian close the
door softly behind her. Then, looking for a moment at his companion--
"He is furious!" he announced at last.
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