“Berenice,” observed Mrs. Carter, airily, “let me introduce Mr. Cowperwood.”
Berenice turned, and for the fraction of a second leveled a frank and yet condescending glance from wells of what Cowperwood considered to be indigo blue.
“Your mother has spoken of you from time to time,” he said, pleasantly.
She withdrew a cool, thin hand as limp and soft as wax, and turned to her mother again without comment, and yet without the least embarrassment. Cowperwood seemed in no way important to her.
“What would you say, dear,” pursued Mrs. Carter, after a brief exchange of commonplaces, “if I were to spend next winter in New York?”
“It would be charming if I could live at home. I’m sick of this silly boarding-school.”
“Why, Berenice! I thought you liked it.”
“I hate it, but only because it’s so dull. The girls here are so silly.”
Mrs. Carter lifted her eyebrows as much as to say to her escort, “Now what do you think?” Cowperwood stood solemnly by. It was not for him to make a suggestion at present. He could see that for some reason—probably because of her disordered life—Mrs. Carter was playing a game of manners with her daughter; she maintained always a lofty, romantic air. With Berenice it was natural—the expression of a vain, self-conscious, superior disposition.
“A rather charming garden here,” he observed, lifting a curtain and looking out into a blooming plot.