y took their
bedroom candles.

CHAPTER IX

Bernard talked of this matter rather theoretically, inasmuch as to
his own sense, he was in a state neither of incipient nor of absorbed
fascination. He got on very easily, however, with Angela Vivian, and
felt none of the mysterious discomfort alluded to by his friend. The
element of mystery attached itself rather to the young lady's mother,
who gave him the impression that for undiscoverable reasons she avoided
his society. He regretted her evasive deportment, for he found something
agreeable in this shy and scrupulous little woman, who struck him as a
curious specimen of a society of which he had once been very fond. He
learned that she was of old New England stock, but he had not needed
this information to perceive that Mrs. Vivian was animated by the genius
of Boston. "She has the Boston temperament," he said, using a
phrase with which he had become familiar and which evoked a train of
associations. But then he immediately added that if Mrs. Vivian was a
daughter of the Puritans, the Puritan strain in her disposition had
been mingled with another element. "It is the Boston temperament
sophisticated," he said; "perverted a little--perhaps even corrupted.
It is the local east-wind with an infusion from climates less tonic." It
seemed to him that Mrs. Vivian was a Puritan grown worldly--a Bostonian
relaxed; and this impression, oddly enough, contributed to his wish to
know more of her. He felt like going up to her very politely and saying,
"Dear lady and most honored compatriot, what in the world have I done
to displease you? You don't approve of me, and I am dying to know the
reason why. I should be so happy to exert myself to be agreeable to you.
It 's no use; you give me the cold shoulder. When I speak to you, you
look the other way; it is only when I speak to your daughter that you
look at me. It is true that at those times you look at me very hard, and
if I am not greatly mistaken, you are not gratified by what you see.
You count the words I address to your beautiful Angela--you time our
harmless little interviews. You interrupt them indeed whenever you can;
you call her away--you appeal to her; you cut across the conversation.
You are always laying plots to keep us apart. Why can't you leave me
alone? I assure you I am the most innocent of men. Your beautiful Angela
can't possibly be injured by my conversation, and I have no designs
whatever upon her peace o