"Oh!—and you see Miss Lothrop by accident! Well, how many times, Tom?
Three—four—five."
"Don't be ridiculous!" the brother struck in. "Of course a fellow goes where he can amuse himself and have the best time; and Mrs. Wishart keeps a pleasant house."
"Especially lately. Well, Tom, take care! it won't do. I warn you."
"What won't do?"—angrily.
"This girl; not for our family. Not for you, Tom. She hasn't anything,—and she isn't anybody; and it will not do for you to marry in that way. If your fortune was ready made to your hand, or if you were established in your profession and at the top of it,—why, perhaps you might be justified in pleasing yourself; but as it is, don't, Tom! Be a good boy, and don't!"
"My dear, he will not," said the elder lady here. "Tom is wiser than you give him credit for."
"I don't give any man credit for being wise, mamma, when a pretty face is in question. And this girl has a pretty face; she is very pretty. But she has no style; she' is as poor as a mouse; she knows nothing of the world; and to crown all, Tom, she's one of the religious sort.—Think of that! One of the real religious sort, you know. Think how that would fit."
"What sort are you?" asked her brother.
"Not that sort, Tom, and you aren't either."
"How do you know she is?"