Frederick Foster was the son of Mrs. Varian’s eldest sister, long since dead, and therefore peculiarly dear to her, so that wherever he went, he always kept up a correspondence with Arthur, of whom he was very fond. So it chanced that they had written him while he was abroad of their sojourn at Newport, and begged him to join them there on his return.
Later on the mother and son decided to meet him at the steamer, as he might feel it a lonely home-coming, his father also being dead, and his two married sisters being absent from the city.
From the pier they had recognized Frederick on the steamer’s deck, but as he stood in front of his three companions, they had not been identified, otherwise Arthur would have gone away to avoid a meeting.
It seemed to Mrs. Varian as if a most malignant fate had sent them there when she lifted her eyes and saw before her Frederick, her handsome nephew, arm in arm with Cinthia, while behind them walked Everard Dawn with the beautiful Madame Ray.
It was a painful, almost a tragic rencontre, and entirely unavoidable, for Frederick Foster, unconscious of anything wrong, cried out almost boisterously:
“How do you do, my dear aunt? Happy to see you, Arthur!” embracing them with effusion, and adding, to the pale, silent girl who clung to his arm: “Miss Dawn, let me present my aunt, Mrs. Varian, and my cousin, Arthur Varian.”
A moment of shocked embarrassment was followed by formal greetings—greetings as of strangers who had never met before.
Mrs. Varian and Cinthia simply bowed to each other, both pale and cold, but Arthur held out his hand, saying, almost inaudibly:
“I am glad to meet you.”
Cinthia bowed without speaking, and gave him her icy fingers in response. Their hands just touched and fell apart, and their faces were as pale as they would ever be in their coffins.