“Yes; nearly everybody. That is—”
“The race?” queried Mrs. Pasmer.
“Yes, at New London,” Mavering broke in. “Don't you know? The University race—Harvard and Yale.”
“Oh—oh yes,” cried Mrs. Pasmer, wondering how her daughter should know about the race, and she not. “Had they talked it over together on Class Day?” she asked herself. She felt herself, in spite of her efforts to keep even with them; left behind and left out, as later age must be distanced and excluded by youth. “Are you gentlemen going to row?” she asked Mavering.
“No; they've ruled the tubs out this time; and we should send anything else to the bottom.”
Mrs. Pasmer perceived that he was joking, but also that they were not of the crew; and she said that if that was the case the should not go.
“Oh, don't let that keep you away! Aren't you going? I hoped you were going,” continued the young man, speaking with his eyes on Mrs. Pasmer, but with his mind, as she could see by his eyes, on her daughter.
“No, no.”
“Oh, do go, Mrs. Pasmer!” he urged: “I wish you'd go along to chaperon us.”
Mrs. Pasmer accepted the notion with amusement. “I should think you might look after each other. At any rate, I think I must trust you to Mr. Boardman this time.”