“I’ll see that they get them,” he said. He had some difficulty in persuading Lauriston that he knew Mrs. Lauriston intimately, and would have no trouble in finding her; for the fellow insisted that his mother was a most reserved woman whom very few people knew intimately.
“She’s a reserved woman without a parasol,” he said by way of identification, when he finally allowed Beverly to depart with the tickets.
The crowd on the lawn at Beck was less objectionable to Beverly, only because it was unhoused. He stopped at the top of the steps leading down to the little enclosure packed with white frocks and the startling flora and fauna of summer millinery. It wasn’t easy to recognise any one in the soft half light of the lanterns swinging in long festoons overhead; and it took him some time to discover Mrs. Lauriston and the girls seated around a table very near him at the foot of the steps on which he was standing. They had seen him the moment he appeared. The Millstone, sitting just behind them at the next table, with two freshmen,—distant cousins of Billy’s,—also saw him.
“So you decided not to catch the train,” said Mrs. Lauriston when Beverly went down to her.
“It’s harder to tear one’s self away from Class Day than I thought,” he said, feelingly, for he had just caught sight of Cousin Marguerite. But he made Mrs. Lauriston a nice little bow as he spoke.
“That’s very pretty,” the lady smiled up at him; “but I should remember it longer if we’d seen anything of you all day.” Beverly was about to reply with the least inane of the two inanities that came into his mind when one of Cousin Marguerite’s freshmen stood up and delivered a message in a low tone.
“Tell her I’m very sorry, but I can’t,” answered Beverly, changing his position to one that defied the laws of optics to make his eyes meet those of the Millstone. The freshman, he noticed, passed rapidly on up the steps and out of Beck. Beverly went on talking to Mrs. Lauriston. He gave her the tickets, and explained her son’s failure to appear as glibly as he could; but he was filled with horrid apprehensions,—Cousin Marguerite’s penetrating voice rose and fell coquettishly behind him without a pause,—and he became noticeably ill at ease. When, in a very few minutes, he heard the Millstone call his own name with all the sickening languor and affectation its three syllables could carry, he ignored the summons, and felt himself growing rigid with anger. She called him again, a trifle louder this time—and pronounced the word “Bevaleh.”
“Some one wishes to speak to you,” said Mrs. Lauriston. Beverly didn’t turn. “It’s the lady you were with at the Pudding; she’s sitting just behind you, and has called you twice. Don’t let me keep you.” Beverly turned and bowed stiffly.
“Mauvais sujet,” said Cousin Marguerite. Mrs. Lauriston and the girls glanced at her involuntarily. Beverly left them abruptly and stood near the Millstone. If she would insist on talking to him, he preferred her playful sallies to be inaudible to the whole of Boston and its adjacent suburbs. As she turned to tap the vacant chair on her left invitingly with her red fan, the second freshman stole craftily away.
“Are you waiting for Billy?” asked Beverly in a tone that just escaped being savage.