“Oh, I don't know,” said Munt, accepting the implication of his superior fashion with pleasure. “I never mind being among the first. It's rather interesting to see people come in—don't you think?”
“That depends a good deal on the people. I don't find a great variety in their smirks and smiles to Mrs. Bellingham; I seem to be doing them all myself. And there's a monotony about their apprehension and helplessness when they're turned adrift that's altogether too much like my own. No, Mr. Munt, I can't agree with you that it's interesting to see people come in. It's altogether too autobiographical. What else have you to suggest?”
“I'm afraid I'm at the end of my string,” said Munt. “I suppose we shall see the Pasmers and young Mavering here to-night.”
Mrs. Brinkley turned and looked sharply at him.
“You've heard of the engagement?” he asked.
“No, decidedly, I haven't. And after his flight from Campobello it's the last thing I expected to hear of. When did it come out?”
“Only within a few days. They've been keeping it rather quiet. Mrs. Pasmer told me herself.”
Mrs. Brinkley gave herself a moment for reflection. “Well, if he can stand it, I suppose I can.”
“That isn't exactly what people are saying to Mrs. Pasmer, Mrs. Brinkley,” suggested Munt, with his humorous manner.
“I dare say they're trying to make her believe that her daughter is sacrificed. That's the way. But she knows better.”