The Patagonia. Генри Джеймс

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      “Yes, tomorrow.  In the same ship as your mother.”

      “That’s what we’ve come here for, to see all about it,” said Mrs. Mavis.

      “My son, take pity on me and tell me what light your telegram throws,” Mrs. Nettlepoint went on.

      “I will, dearest, when I’ve quenched my thirst.”  And he slowly drained his glass.

      “Well, I declare you’re worse than Gracie,” Mrs. Mavis commented.  “She was first one thing and then the other—but only about up to three o’clock yesterday.”

      “Excuse me—won’t you take something?” Jasper inquired of Gracie; who however still declined, as if to make up for her mother’s copious consommation.  I found myself quite aware that the two ladies would do well to take leave, the question of Mrs. Nettlepoint’s good will being so satisfactorily settled and the meeting of the morrow at the ship so near at hand and I went so far as to judge that their protracted stay, with their hostess visibly in a fidget, gave the last proof of their want of breeding.  Miss Grace after all then was not such an improvement on her mother, for she easily might have taken the initiative of departure, in spite of Mrs. Mavis’s evident “game” of making her own absorption of refreshment last as long as possible.  I watched the girl with increasing interest; I couldn’t help asking myself a question or two about her and even perceiving already (in a dim and general way) that rather marked embarrassment, or at least anxiety attended her.  Wasn’t it complicating that she should have needed, by remaining long enough, to assuage a certain suspense, to learn whether or no Jasper were going to sail?  Hadn’t something particular passed between them on the occasion or at the period to which we had caught their allusion, and didn’t she really not know her mother was bringing her to his mother’s, though she apparently had thought it well not to betray knowledge?  Such things were symptomatic—though indeed one scarce knew of what—on the part of a young lady betrothed to that curious cross-barred phantom of a Mr. Porterfield.  But I am bound to add that she gave me no further warrant for wonder than was conveyed in her all tacitly and covertly encouraging her mother to linger.  Somehow I had a sense that she was conscious of the indecency of this.  I got up myself to go, but Mrs. Nettlepoint detained me after seeing that my movement wouldn’t be taken as a hint, and I felt she wished me not to leave my fellow visitors on her hands.  Jasper complained of the closeness of the room, said that it was not a night to sit in a room—one ought to be out in the air, under the sky.  He denounced the windows that overlooked the water for not opening upon a balcony or a terrace, until his mother, whom he hadn’t yet satisfied about his telegram, reminded him that there was a beautiful balcony in front, with room for a dozen people.  She assured him we would go and sit there if it would please him.

      “It will be nice and cool tomorrow, when we steam into the great ocean,” said Miss Mavis, expressing with more vivacity than she had yet thrown into any of her utterances my own thought of half an hour before.  Mrs. Nettlepoint replied that it would probably be freezing cold, and her son murmured that he would go and try the drawing-room balcony and report upon it.  Just as he was turning away he said, smiling, to Miss Mavis: “Won’t you come with me and see if it’s pleasant?”