"We spent some time there," Beth replied.
"Of course you have seen Weimar, then," Pease assumed. He happened to be right.
"Oh, yes," she answered, quite as if Weimar were still a focus of travel. "We spent a month there; mamma was quite ill. You know"—and here she addressed Miss Cynthia—"that she died over there, and then we came home."
Mr. Pease, in conjunction with his cousin, murmured his condolences, and Miss Blanchard, not to make the evening doleful, turned again to speak of Weimar.
"We lived quite near to Goethe's house," she said.
Then she beheld Mr. Pease glow with admiration. "You are very fortunate," he cried. "The inspiration must have been great."
"I am no writer, Mr. Pease," returned Beth.
"But," he explained, "it must have permanently bettered and improved you."
"Do you think I needed it?" she flashed.
Miss Cynthia, at her end of the table, was biting her lip. Pease, not perceiving that he was being rallied, fell to apologising. "Oh, no," he gasped. "I meant——"