It was not for him to make a suggestion at present.

He could see that for some reason--probably because of her disordered life--Mrs.Carter was playing a game of manners with her daughter; she maintained always a lofty, romantic air.

With Berenice it was natural--the expression of a vain, self-conscious, superior disposition.
"A rather charming garden here," he observed, lifting a curtain and looking out into a blooming plot.
"Yes, the flowers are nice," commented Berenice.
"Wait; I'll get some for you.

It's against the rules, but they can't do more than send me away, and that's what I want." "Berenice! Come back here!" It was Mrs.Carter calling.
The daughter was gone in a fling of graceful lines and flounces.

"Now what do you make of her ?" asked Mrs.Carter, turning to her friend.
"Youth, individuality, energy--a hundred things.