"I could see his face in the mirror; and the effort he made to collect his thoughts and appear to listen while his mother went on talking about the book, was perfectly plain to me.
"'You like it,' he said, absently.
"'My dear James,' she exclaimed, laughing in her pleasant, genial way, 'where are your thoughts this morning? I don't believe you have heard one word I was saying.'
"'Oh yes,' he replied, 'you were saying how much you and Miss Crawford were interested in the book.'
"'I had done with that,' said she, shaking her bouquet at him playfully, 'I was asking you the name of his last work.'
"'Whose? Ah! Bulwer's—I am stupid this morning, I must acknowledge.'
"I was sorry for the sort of embarrassment he displayed—something unusual with him, so strong and self-centered, and I mentioned the name of the romance that had preceded the one we were reading.
"'Of course,' said Mrs. Harrington, 'Mabel's memory never fails! Do you know, James, the faculty she has of retaining names and dates is something marvellous, especially to poor me, who sometimes can scarcely recollect my own age and rightful appellation.
"'One has the opportunity of admiring so many splendid qualities in Miss Crawford,' he answered, in the distant, ceremonious way which he so often employed toward me of late.
"I felt absolutely hurt, silly and childish as it was to care for so slight a thing. I suppose my tell-tale face showed it, for Mrs. Harrington said, teasingly—