“Isn't that rather a theory?” asked Mr. Brinkley, finding such opportunities for conversation as he could. “I dare say Mrs. Pasmer would be very glad to see him.”
“I've no doubt she would,” said Mrs. Brinkley. “But it's the worst thing that could happen—for him. And I feel like writing him not to come—telegraphing him.”
“You know how the man made a fortune in Chicago,” said her husband, drying his razor tenderly on a towel before beginning to strop it. “I advise you to let the whole thing alone. It doesn't concern us in any way whatever.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Brinkley, “there ought to be a committee to take it in hand and warn him.”
“I dare say you could make one up among the ladies. But don't be the first to move in the matter.”
“I really believe,” said his wife, with her mind taken off the point by the attractiveness of a surmise which had just occurred to her, “that Mrs. Pasmer would be capable of following him down if she knew he was in Washington.”
“Yes, if she know. But she probably doesn't.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Brinkley disappointedly. “I think the sudden departure of the Van Hooks must have had something to do with Dan Mavering.”
“Seems a very influential young man,” said her husband. “He attracts and repels people right and left. Did you speak to the Pasmers?”
“No; you'd better, when you go down. They've just come into the dining-room. The girl looks like death.”