Just then Pauline found herself confronted by Mr. Howe, the novelist. His stoop was very apparent; it seemed even more consumptive than usual; his slim hand was incessantly touching and retouching his blue spectacles, which gleamed opaque and with a goblin suggestion from the smooth-shaven, scholarly pallor of his visage.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Varick," he began, "but I—I wish to speak a word with you."
Pauline smiled and assumed an affable demeanor. It cost her an effort to do so, for certain acute reasons; but she nevertheless achieved good results.
"A great many words, Mr. Howe," she answered, "if you wish."
Mr. Howe gave a sickly smile. "Oh, I don't ask a great many," he faltered; and it at once became evident that he was for some reason ill at ease, disconsolate, abysmally depressed.
"You are annoyed," said Pauline, chiefly because she found nothing else, as a would-be courteous hostess, to say.
"Annoyed?" came the hesitant reply, while Mr. Howe rearranged his blue spectacles with a hand that seemed to assume a new momentary decisiveness. "I am grieved, Mrs. Varick. I am grieved because a friend of mine has received a slight from you, and I hope that it is an unintentional slight. I—I want to ask you whether it cannot be corrected. I allude to Mr. Bedlowe."
"Mr. Bedlowe!" repeated Pauline amazedly. She turned to Kindelon as she spoke.
"Oh, yes," came Kindelon's ready answer; "you remember Bedlowe, of course."
"I remember Mr. Bedlowe," said Pauline, sedately.