"Oh, Boston is only an antiquarian society," laughed Rangely, "and these old tabbies are all honorary members. By Jove, though, there are some awfully pretty girls here."
"I've observed that Boston girls are apt to be pretty when they give their minds to it," remarked Bently. "Not when they wander round with Homer under one arm and Virgil under the other and dyspepsia in the stomach, but when they are deliberately frivolous."
The throng separated them at this moment, and Dr. Ashton went in search of host and hostess. Arthur caught sight of his tall figure, and made a sign at once of recognition and summons. Struggling between a young Episcopal clergyman and a corpulent old lady, Dr. Ashton made his way with difficulty to the spot where his friend was standing.
"You are the most married man I know, Arthur," was his greeting. "Brigham Young wasn't a circumstance. I have been half an hour crossing the room."
"Dr. Ashton, Edith; my wife, Will," was the only reply Fenton made, unless one could interpret the quizzical glance he bestowed upon his friend.
"I feel already acquainted with you," was Mrs. Fenton's remark, "I have heard of you so often. My husband has spoken to me so much of his friends that it is hard for me to realize that I do not know them myself."
"You have been very little in Boston, I believe," Dr. Ashton said, looking at her in a sudden surprise at remembering that he had seen her face before.
"Very little," replied she, "I have been abroad a great part of my life and—"
New claims upon her attention ended the conversation with that charming abruptness characteristic of such an occasion, and the Doctor was left to elbow his way out of the crush, with the sense of having done all that would be required of him. He found a corner where he could watch the hostess and fell to wondering whether Mrs. Fenton in her turn remembered their previous meeting.
Edith Fenton was a slender, nun-like woman, too pale, with a smile of wonderful attractiveness. "A woman to wear lilies," was the way Grant Herman put it afterward; a remark which conveyed well the purity of her face. Her ease of manner showed familiarity with the conventionalities of life, yet in some vague way she seemed removed from the people by whom she was to-day surrounded.