revert to Mr. Porterfield. She had not encouraged me, when I spoke to her as we were leaving Boston, to go on with the history of my acquaintance with this gentleman; and yet now, unexpectedly, she appeared to imply (it was doubtless one of the disparities mentioned by Mrs. Nettlepoint) that he might be glanced at without indelicacy.
'I see, you mean by letters,' I remarked.
'I shan't live in a good part. I know enough to know that,' she went on.
'Dear young lady, there are no bad parts,' I answered, reassuringly.
'Why, Mr. Nettlepoint says it's horrid.'
'It's horrid?'
'Up there in the Batignolles. It's worse than Merrimac Avenue.'
'Worse—in what way?'
'Why, even less where the nice people live.'
'He oughtn't to say that,' I returned. 'Don't you call Mr. Porterfield a nice person?' I ventured to subjoin.
'Oh, it doesn't make any difference.' She rested her eyes on me a moment through her veil, the texture of which gave them a suffused prettiness. ' Do you know him very well?' she asked.
'Mr. Porterfield?'
'No, Mr. Nettlepoint.'
'Ah, very little. He's a good deal younger than I.'
She was silent a moment; after which she said: 'He's younger than me, too.' I know not what drollery there was in this but it was unexpected and it made me laugh. Neither do I know whether Miss Mavis took offence at my laughter, though
