“Oh, nobody in particular,” he snorted. “But I don’t believe you’ll ever marry a carpet-knight. You won’t if I can stop you, at any rate.” He had taken out a cigar and snipped the end of it carefully with a pocket-knife. “They’re a new kind of animal to me, these young fellows about town,” he said between puffs. “Beside a man, they’re what the toy pug is to the bulldog or the Pomeranian is to the ‘husky.’ Fine dogs they are,” he sniffed, “bred to the boudoir and the drawing-room!”
“But some of them are very nice, Daddy,” said Jane. “You know you liked Dirwell De Lancey and William Worthington.”
“Oh, they’re the harmless kind, playful and amusing!” he sneered. “But they’re only harmless because they haven’t sense enough to be anything else. You’ll meet the other kind, Jane, the loafers and the drunkards.”
Miss Loring leaned quickly forward away from him, her elbows on her knees, and looked into the fire.
“I suppose so,” she said quietly.
“It’s the work of the social system, Jane. Most of these old families are playing a losing game, their blood is diluted and impoverished, but they still cling to their ropes of sand. They marry their children to our children, but God knows that won’t help ’em. It isn’t money they need. Money can’t make new gristle and cartilage. Money can’t buy new fiber.”
The girl changed her position slightly. “I suppose it’s all true, but it seems a pity that the sons should suffer for the sins of the fathers.”
“It’s written so—unto the third and fourth generation, Jane.”
“But the sons—they have no chance—no chance at all?”