Mrs. Corey took account of her, as Penelope withdrew to the other side of the room after their introduction, and sat down, indolently submissive on the surface to the tests to be applied, and following Mrs. Corey’s lead of the conversation in her odd drawl.
“You young ladies will be glad to be getting into your new house,” she said politely.
“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “We’re so used to this one.”
Mrs. Corey looked a little baffled, but she said sympathetically, “Of course, you will be sorry to leave your old home.”
Mrs. Lapham could not help putting in on behalf of her daughters: “I guess if it was left to the girls to say, we shouldn’t leave it at all.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Corey; “are they so much attached? But I can quite understand it. My children would be heartbroken too if we were to leave the old place.” She turned to Penelope. “But you must think of the lovely new house, and the beautiful position.”
“Yes, I suppose we shall get used to them too,” said Penelope, in response to this didactic consolation.
“Oh, I could even imagine your getting very fond of them,” pursued Mrs. Corey patronisingly. “My son has told me of the lovely outlook you’re to have over the water. He thinks you have such a beautiful house. I believe he had the pleasure of meeting you all there when he first came home.”
“Yes, I think he was our first visitor.”
“He is a great admirer of your house,” said Mrs. Corey, keeping her eyes very sharply, however politely, on Penelope’s face, as if to surprise there the secret of any other great admiration of her son’s that might helplessly show itself.
“Yes,” said the girl, “he’s been there several times with father; and he wouldn’t be allowed to overlook any of its good points.”
Her mother took a little more courage from her daughter’s tranquillity.
“The girls make such fun of their father’s excitement about his building, and the way he talks it into everybody.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Corey, with civil misunderstanding and inquiry.
Penelope flushed, and her mother went on: “I tell him he’s more of a child about it than any of them.”
“Young people are very philosophical nowadays,” remarked Mrs. Corey.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Lapham. “I tell them they’ve always had everything, so that nothing’s a surprise to them. It was different with us in our young days.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Corey, without assenting.
“I mean the Colonel and myself,” explained Mrs. Lapham.
“Oh yes—yes!” said Mrs. Corey.
“I’m sure,” the former went on, rather helplessly, “we had to work hard enough for everything we got. And so we appreciated it.”
“So many things were not done for young people then,” said Mrs. Corey, not recognising the early-hardships standpoint of Mrs. Lapham. “But I don’t know that they are always the better for it now,” she added vaguely, but with the satisfaction we all feel in uttering a just commonplace.
“It’s rather hard living up to blessings that you’ve always had,” said Penelope.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Corey distractedly, and coming back to her slowly from the virtuous distance to which she had absented herself. She looked at the girl searchingly again, as if to determine whether this were a touch of the drolling her son had spoken of. But she only added: “You will enjoy the sunsets on the Back Bay so much.”
“Well, not unless they’re new ones,” said Penelope. “I don’t believe I could promise to enjoy any sunsets that I was used to, a great deal.”
Mrs. Corey looked at her with misgiving, hardening into dislike. “No,” she breathed vaguely. “My son spoke of the fine effect of the lights about the hotel from your cottage at Nantasket,” she said to Mrs. Lapham.
“Yes, they’re splendid!” exclaimed that lady. “I guess the girls went down every night with him to see them from the rocks.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Corey, a little dryly; and she permitted herself to add: “He spoke of those rocks. I suppose both you young ladies spend a great deal of your time on them when you’re there. At Nahant my children were constantly on them.”
“Irene likes the rocks,” said Penelope. “I don’t care much about them—especially at night.”
“Oh, indeed! I suppose you find it quite as well looking at the lights comfortably from the veranda.”
“No; you can’t see them from the house.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Corey. After a perceptible pause, she turned to Mrs. Lapham. “I don’t know what my son would have done for a breath of sea air this summer, if you had not allowed him to come to Nantasket. He wasn’t willing to leave his business long enough to go anywhere else.”
“Yes, he’s a born businessman,” responded Mrs. Lapham enthusiastically. “If it’s born in you, it’s bound to come out. That’s what the Colonel is always saying about Mr. Corey. He says it’s born in him to be a businessman, and he can’t help it.” She recurred to Corey gladly because she felt that she had not said enough of him when his mother first spoke of his connection with the business. “I don’t believe,” she went on excitedly, “that Colonel Lapham has ever had anybody with him that he thought more of.”
“You have all been very kind to my son,” said Mrs. Corey in acknowledgment, and stiffly bowing a little, “and we feel greatly indebted to you. Very much so.”
At these grateful expressions Mrs. Lapham reddened once more, and murmured that it had been very pleasant to them, she was sure. She glanced at her daughter for support, but Penelope was looking at Mrs. Corey, who doubtless saw her from the
