"Yes, of course, that's the best way," admitted Mrs. Pasmer. "It's the
only way," she added, as if it were her own invariable practice. Then she
added further, "I wonder what he did mean?"

She began to yawn, for after her simulation of vivid interest in them the
visit of the young men had fatigued her. In the midst of her yawn her
daughter went out of the room, with an impatient gesture, and she
suspended the yawn long enough to smile, and then finished it.




XI.

After first going to the Owen, at Campobello, the Pasmers took rooms at
the Ty'n-y-Coed, which is so much gayer, even if it is not so
characteristic of the old Welsh Admiral's baronial possession of the
island. It is characteristic enough, and perched on its bluff overlooking
the bay, or whatever the body of water is, it sees a score of pretty
isles and long reaches of mainland coast, with a white marble effect of
white-painted wooden Eastport, nestled in the wide lap of the shore, in
apparent luxury and apparent innocence of smuggling and the manufacture
of herring sardines. The waters that wrap the island in morning and
evening fog temper the air of the latitude to a Newport softness in
summer, with a sort of inner coolness that is peculiarly delicious,
lulling the day with long calms and light breezes, and after nightfall
commonly sending a stiff gale to try the stops of the hotel's gables and
casements, and to make the cheerful blaze on its public hearths
acceptable. Once or twice a day the Eastport ferry-boat arrives, with