“No—to be sure; more’s the pity. And now it’s too late; her life is finished.” She spoke with the cold-blooded complacency of the aged throwing earth into the grave of young hopes. The young man’s heart grew chill, and he said hurriedly: “Can’t I persuade you to use your influence with the Wellands, Mrs. Mingott? I wasn’t made for long engagements.”
Old Catherine beamed on him approvingly. “No; I can see that. You’ve got a quick eye. When you were a little boy I’ve no doubt you liked to be helped first.” She threw back her head with a laugh that made her chins ripple like little waves. “Ah, here’s my Ellen now!” she exclaimed, as the portières parted behind her.
Madame Olenska came forward with a smile. Her face looked vivid and happy, and she held out her hand gaily to Archer while she stooped to her grandmother’s kiss.
“I was just saying to him, my dear: ‘Now, why didn’t you marry my little Ellen?’ ”
Madame Olenska looked at Archer, still smiling. “And what did he answer?”
“Oh, my darling, I leave you to find that out! He’s been down to Florida to see his sweetheart.”
“Yes, I know.” She still looked at him. “I went to see your mother, to ask where you’d gone. I sent a note that you never answered, and I was afraid you were ill.”
He muttered something about leaving unexpectedly, in a great hurry, and having intended to write to her from St. Augustine.
“And of course once you were there you never thought of me again!” She continued to beam on him with a gaiety that might have been a studied assumption of indifference.