"I hope I shall like your surprise," said Pauline, as she leaned back against the cushions, not knowing how pretty she looked in her patrician elegance of garb and person. "But we will not talk of it; I might guess what it is if we did, and that would spoil all. My faith in you shall be blind and unquestioning, and I shall expect a proportionately rich reward.... What gulfs of difference lie between that interesting little Mrs. Dares and most of the women whom I have met! People tell us that we must travel to see life. I begin to think that one great city like New York can give us the most majestic experience, if only we know how to receive it. Take my Aunt Cynthia Poughkeepsie, for example, and compare her with Mrs. Dares! A whole continent seems to lie between them, and yet they are continually living at scarcely a stone's-throw apart."
Kindelon gave a brisk, acquiescent nod.
"True enough," he said. "Travel shows us only the outsides of men and women. We go abroad to discover better what profits of observation lie at home...."
The carriage at length stopped.
"Is my surprise all ready to burst upon me?" asked Pauline, at this point.
"Yes. Its explosion is now imminent," said Kindelon, with dry solemnity of accent.
Pauline, after she had alighted, surveyed her surroundings for a moment, and then said,—
"I knew we were approaching the Battery, but I did not suppose you meant to stop there. And why have you stopped, pray?"
Kindelon pointed toward a distant flash of water glimpsed between the nude black boughs of many high trees. "You can't think what a delightful stroll we could take over yonder," he said, "along the esplanade. The carriage could wait here for us, you know."
"Certainly," acceded Pauline.