Indian Summer | Page 5

one quite down by the Cascine is the iron bridge. The Cascine you
remember--the park where we were driving--that clump of woods
there----"
A vagueness expressive of divided interest had crept into the lady's
tone rather than her words. Colville could feel that she was waiting for
the right moment to turn her delicate head, sculpturesquely defined by
its toque, and steal an imperceptible glance at him: and he involuntarily
afforded her the coveted excuse by the slight noise he made in
changing his position in order to be able to go away as soon as he had
seen whether she was pretty or not. At forty-one the question is still

important to every man with regard to every woman.
"Mr. Colville!"
The gentle surprise conveyed in the exclamation, without time for
recognition, convinced Colville, upon a cool review of the facts, that
the lady had known him before their eyes met.
"Why, Mrs. Bowen!" he said.
She put out her round, slender arm, and gave him a frank clasp of her
gloved hand. The glove wrinkled richly up the sleeve of her dress
half-way to her elbow. She bent on his face a demand for just what
quality and degree of change he found in hers, and apparently she
satisfied herself that his inspection was not to her disadvantage, for she
smiled brightly, and devoted the rest of her glance to an electric
summary of the facts of Colville's physiognomy; the sufficiently good
outline of his visage, with its full, rather close-cut, drabbish-brown
beard and moustache, both shaped a little by the ironical self-conscious
smile that lurked under them; the non-committal, rather weary-looking
eyes; the brown hair, slightly frosted, that showed while he stood with
his hat still off. He was a little above the middle height, and if it must
be confessed, neither his face nor his figure had quite preserved their
youthful lines. They were both much heavier than when Mrs. Bowen
saw them last, and the latter here and there swayed beyond the strict
bounds of symmetry. She was herself in that moment of life when, to
the middle-aged observer, at least, a woman's looks have a charm
which is wanting to her earlier bloom. By that time her character has
wrought itself more clearly out in her face, and her heart and mind
confront you more directly there. It is the youth of her spirit which has
come to the surface.
"I should have known you anywhere," she exclaimed, with friendly
pleasure in seeing him.
"You are very kind," said Colville. "I didn't know that I had preserved
my youthful beauty to that degree. But I can imagine it--if you say so,
Mrs. Bowen."

"Oh, I assure you that you have!" she protested; and now she began
gently to pursue him with one fine question after another about himself,
till she had mastered the main facts of his history since they had last
met. He would not have known so well how to possess himself of hers,
even if he had felt the same necessity; but in fact it had happened that
he had heard of her from time to time at not very long intervals. She
had married a leading lawyer of her Western city, who in due time had
gone to Congress, and after his term was out had "taken up his
residence" in Washington, as the newspapers said, "in his elegant
mansion at the corner of & Street and Idaho Avenue." After that he
remembered reading that Mrs. Bowen was going abroad for the
education of her daughter, from which he made his own inferences
concerning her marriage. And "You knew Mr. Bowen was no longer
living?" she said, with fit obsequy of tone.
"Yes, I knew," he answered, with decent sympathy.
"This is my little Effie," said Mrs. Bowen after a moment; and now the
child, hitherto keeping herself discreetly in the background, came
forward and promptly gave her hand to Colville, who perceived that
she was not so small as he had thought her at first; an effect of infancy
had possibly been studied in the brevity of her skirts and the immaturity
of her corsage, but both were in good taste, and really to the advantage
of her young figure. There was reason and justice in her being dressed
as she was, for she really was not so old as she looked by two or three
years; and there was reason in Mrs. Bowen's carrying in the hollow of
her left arm the India shawl sacque she had taken off and hung there;
the deep cherry silk lining gave life to the sombre tints prevailing in her
dress, which its removal left free to express all the grace of her
extremely lady-like person. Lady-like was the word for Mrs. Bowen
throughout--for