“Mr. Meigs. I had to tell him that it couldn't be. And he is one of the best men I ever knew.”
“You don't tell me you've gone and refused him, Irene?”
“Please don't scold me. It was no use. He ought to have seen that I did not care for him, except as a friend. I'm so sorry!”
“You are the strangest girl I ever saw.” And Mrs. Benson dropped back on the pillow again, crying herself now, and muttering, “I'm sure I don't know what you do want.”
When King came out to breakfast he encountered Mr. Benson, who told him that their friend Mr. Meigs had gone off that morning—had a sudden business call to Boston. Mr. Benson did not seem to be depressed about it. Irene did not appear, and King idled away the hours with his equally industrious companion under the trees. There was no german that morning, and the hotel band was going through its repertoire for the benefit of a champagne party on the lawn. There was nothing melancholy about this party; and King couldn't help saying to Mrs. Farquhar that it hardly represented his idea of the destitution and depression resulting from the war; but she replied that they must do something to keep up their spirits.
“And I think,” said the artist, who had been watching, from the little distance at which they sat, the table of the revelers, “that they will succeed. Twenty-six bottles of champagne, and not many more guests! What a happy people, to be able to enjoy champagne before twelve o'clock!”
“Oh, you never will understand us!” said Mrs. Farquhar; “there is nothing spontaneous in you.”
“We do not begin to be spontaneous till after dinner,” said King.
“And then it is all calculated. Think of Mr. Forbes counting the bottles! Such a dreadfully mercenary spirit! Oh, I have been North. Because you are not so open as we are, you set up for being more virtuous.”
“And you mean,” said King, “that frankness and impulse cover a multitude of—”