However, it made me feel uncomfortable, so by and by I got off the bed and went down stairs.
At the supper-table I tried to make myself as agreeable as possible. I talked over the trip, and spoke of the people we had met at the mountains; but I had most of the conversation to myself. Bessie did not seem to be in a mood to chat; Mrs. Pinkerton devoted herself to impaling me with her eyes once in a while; in a word, the mental atmosphere was muggy.
“Desmond has travelled a great deal,” I said. “I was speaking of French politics the other day, and he gave me a long harangue on the situation. He was in Paris several years, when he was a good deal younger than he is now.”
“Mr. Desmond is not a very old man,” said Mrs. Pinkerton, “but he has passed that age when men think they know all there is to be known.”
I accepted this shot good-naturedly, and laughed.
“His niece is a remarkably bright girl,” I continued. “Don’t you think so?”
“I cannot say I think it either bright or proper for a young lady to go off alone on mountain excursions for half a day, and return with her dress torn and her hands all scratched.”
“Well, it was rather imprudent, but you know she said she had no intention of going so far when she started, and she missed her way.”
“I did not hear her excuses. She appeared to be a spoiled child, and her manners were insufferably offensive. I should have known she came from New York, even if I had not been told.”
“Do you think all New-Yorkers are loud?”