One day Mrs. Smith-Parvis, to his surprise and joy, announced that she thought Stuyvesant ought to have a real chance to make something of himself,—a vocation or an avocation, she wasn't sure which,—and she couldn't see why the father of such a bright, capable boy had been so blind to the possibilities that lay before him. She actually blamed him for holding the young man back.
"I suggested some time ago, my dear," he began, in self-defence, "that the boy ought to get a job and settle down to—"
"Job? How I loathe that word. It is almost as bad as situation."
"Well, then, position," he amended. "You wouldn't hear to it."
"I have no recollection of any such conversation," said she firmly. "I have been giving the subject a great deal of thought lately. The dear boy is entitled to his opportunity. He must make a name for himself. I have decided, Philander, that he ought to go into the diplomatic service."
"Oh, Lord!"
"I don't blame you for saying 'Oh, Lord,' if you think I mean the American diplomatic service," she said, smiling. "That, of course, is not even to be considered. He must aim higher than that. I know it is a vulgar expression, but there is no class to the American embassies abroad. Compare our embassies with any of the other—"
"But, my dear, you forget that—"
"They are made up largely of men who have sprung from the most ordinary walks in life,—men totally unfitted for the social position that— Please do not argue, Philander. You know perfectly well that what I say is true. I shouldn't think of letting Stuyvesant enter the American diplomatic service. Do you remember that dreadful person who came to see us in Berlin,—about the trunks we sent up from Paris by grande vitesse? Well, just think of Stuyvesant—"
"He was a clerk from the U. S. Consul's office," he interrupted doggedly. "Nothing whatever to do with the embassy. Besides, we can't—"