"Yes, Courtlandt, too—my friend, Courtlandt," said Kindelon oddly.
"I told Aunt Cynthia she had best not come," murmured Pauline.
"And your cousin, Courtlandt?" said Kindelon. "Did you tell him not to come?"
"I am sorry that they came—I somehow can't help but be sorry!" exclaimed Pauline, while she moved towards the door by which she had seen her kindred enter.
"Sorry? So am I," said Kindelon. He spoke below his breath, but Pauline heard him.
XI.
"I am very glad to see you," Pauline was telling her aunt, a little later. She felt, while she spoke them, that her words were the merest polite falsehood. "I did not suppose you would care to honor me this evening—I mean all three of you," she added, with a rather mechanical smile in the direction of Miss Sallie and Courtlandt.
Mrs. Poughkeepsie promptly spoke. She was looking about her through a pair of gold-rimmed glasses while she did so. Her portliness was not without a modish majesty; folds of a black, close-clinging, lace-like fabric fell about her large person with much grace of effect; her severe nose appeared to describe an even more definite arc than usual.
"Sallie and I had nothing for to-night," said Mrs. Poughkeepsie. "Lent began to-day, you know, and there wasn't even a dinner to go to."