“Not even the Ellisons,” said Basil.
“Ah, yes,” said Isabel; “that was where we met them. How long ago it seems! And poor little Kitty! I wonder what has become of them? But I'm glad they're not here. That's what makes you realize your age: meeting the same people in the same place a great while after, and seeing how old—they've grown. I don't think I could bear to see Kitty Ellison again. I'm glad she didn't come to visit us in Boston, though, after what happened, she could n't, poor thing! I wonder if she's ever regretted her breaking with him in the way she did. It's a very painful thing to think of,—such an inconclusive conclusion; it always seemed as if they ought to meet again, somewhere.”
“I don't believe she ever wished it.”
“A man can't tell what a woman wishes.”
“Well, neither can a woman,” returned Basil, lightly.
His wife remained serious. “It was a very fine point,—a very little thing to reject a man for. I felt that when I first read her letter about it.”
Basil yawned. “I don't believe I ever knew just what the point was.”
“Oh yes, you did; but you forget everything. You know that they met two Boston ladies just after they were engaged, and she believed that he did n't introduce her because he was ashamed of her countrified appearance before them.”
“It was a pretty fine point,” said Basil, and he laughed provokingly.
“He might not have meant to ignore her,” answered Isabel thoughtfully; “he might have chosen not to introduce her because he felt too proud of her to subject her to any possible misappreciation from them. You might have looked at it in that way.”