"But, do you know, I don't think I shall call you Robert," she went on. "It has a prim sound"—but it was the primness of himself that she wanted to break down—"and it doesn't suit a boy of your tender years. I think I'll call you Bob, if you don't mind."
"I wish you would," he adroitly answered her.
"What is your bent towards, in the way of a career, Bob?"
He said he thought the law—to be a judge some day.
"You don't care for station life?"
"Oh, he does," his father eagerly interposed. "He loves it. But he has had so few chances—"
"Which is your school, Bob?"
A seminary of no repute was named, and the father again intervened to regret that it was not one of the public schools. "But they, unfortunately, have been beyond our means—"
Here Mary broke in with praises of the seminary. It had such an excellent headmaster, was so conveniently situated—really better in many ways than one of the great schools—
And then Robert broke in.