“Did she—did Miss Benson say anything about Newport?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, I didn't know but she might have mentioned how she liked it.”
“I don't think she liked it as much as her mother did. Mrs. Benson talks of nothing else. Irene said nothing special to me. I don't know what she may have said to Mr. Meigs,” this wily woman added, in the most natural manner.
“Who is Mr. Meigs?”
“Mr. Alfred Meigs, Boston. He is a rich widower, about forty—the most fascinating age for a widower, you know. I think he is conceited, but he is really a most entertaining man; has traveled all over the world—Egypt, Persia—lived in Japan, prides himself a little on never having been in Colorado or Florida.”
“What does he do?”
“Do? He drives Miss Benson to Otter Cliffs, and out on the Cornice Road, about seven days in the week, and gets up sailing-parties and all that in the intervals.”
“I mean his occupation.”
“Isn't that occupation enough? Well, he has a library and a little archaeological museum, and prints monographs on art now and then. If he were a New-Yorker, you know, he would have a yacht instead of a library. There they are now.”