“Have you not seen him since that night?” said I, “it is quite a long time ago.”
“That night—so it did make some impression on my young debutante,” said Mr. Osborne, with a smile. “Do you know I have been out of Cambridge for nearly three weeks, you forgetful young lady? Well, Hester, what of that night?”
“What of it, Mr. Osborne?” said I, with some little indignation. “I suppose there was nothing very extraordinary about it.”
Mr. Osborne laughed, and I was provoked. “There only was a crowd of people—there is nothing remarkable in a crowd,” said I, impetuously. “Why should I think about it—you do not suppose that I take a party like that for the world?”
“What do you call the world then, Hester?” said Mr. Osborne.
“I do not know,” said I, hesitating a little. “I cannot tell,” I repeated, after another pause, “but I suppose there is as much of it here as there was yonder. I think so, at least.”
“So that is the verdict of youth, is it?” said Mr. Osborne. “Henry, my boy, what say you?”
I could not help turning my head quickly towards him, but I did not raise my eyes; how I wondered what he would say.
“The party has sometimes more influence on a life than the street can have,” said the young man, with hesitation, “otherwise, I have no doubt, a thronged and busy street in London would look more like the world than a Cambridge drawing-room—but sometimes the drawing-room makes a greater mark in a life.”
“My good youth, you are less intelligible than Hester,” said Mr. Osborne, “but the young lady has no metaphysical bias that I know of, so we will not discuss the question. So we were very prosy, were we, the other night? and you were nearly smothered under the Professor’s shadow, and had nothing but pictures to look at, poor child! The next one will be better, Hester, do not be dismayed.”