If George had ever in his life felt anything approaching to love for Mamie, he could not have failed to notice that Totty had done all in her power to keep the two apart during the past three years, in other words since Mamie had been of a marriageable age. But it had always been a matter of supreme indifference to him whether he were left alone with her or not, and to-day it had not struck him that Totty had never before proposed that he should go and spend an hour with her daughter when there was nobody about. Totty herself, if her heart had not been bursting with an anticipated triumph, would have been more cautious, and would have thought twice before making her suggestion with so much frankness. In the moment of her meeting with him and guessing the truth so many possibilities had suggested themselves to her that she had not found time to reflect, and she had for an instant entertained the idea of returning immediately from Washington Square to her own home, in order to find George there and perform the part of the skilful and interested consoler. A very little consideration showed her that this would be an unwise course to pursue, and she had adopted a plan infinitely more diplomatic, of which the results will be seen and appreciated before long. In the meantime George Wood was seated beside Mamie and her flowers, listening to her talk, answering her remarks rather vaguely, and wondering why he was alive, and since he was alive, why he was in that particular place.
“You look tired, George,” said the young girl, studying his face. “You look almost ill.”
“Do I? I am all right. I have been doing a lot of work lately. And you, Mamie—what is the matter? Your mother told me just now that you had a bad cold. I hope it is nothing serious.”
“Oh, it is nothing. I wanted to read your book, and I did not want to make visits, and I had just enough of a cold to make a good excuse. A cold is so useful sometimes—it is just the same thing that your writing is to you. Everybody believes it is inevitable, and then one can do as one pleases. But you really do look dreadfully. Have some tea—with a stick in it as papa calls it.”
Mamie laughed a little at her own use of the slang term, though her eyes showed that she was really made anxious by George’s appearance.
“Thank you,” he answered. “I do not want anything, but I am very tired, and when your mother told me you were all alone at home I thought it would do me good to come and stay with you a little while, if you would talk to me.”
“I am so glad you came. I have not seen much of you, lately.” There was a ring of regret in her voice.
“You have been so gay. How can I get at you when you are racing through society all the year round from morning till night?”
“Oh, it is not that, George, and you know it is not! We have often been in the same gay places together, and you hardly ever come near me, though I would much rather talk with you than with all the other men.”
“No you would not—and if you would, you are such a raving success, as they call it, this year, that you are always surrounded—unless you are sitting in corners with the pinks of desirability whose very shoe-strings are a cut above the ‘likes o’ me.’ When are you going to marry, Mamie?”