"Again, your husband, I believe, was a low comedian—a singer, a dancer, a buffoon—anything."
"He was a general utility actor. Sometimes he had a variety entertainment."
"Humphrey, my son, has no talent for acting at all; like his father, he would conceive it beneath the dignity of a gentleman to make merriment for his friends."
Alice sighed. Molly sat looking straight before her, either unmoved or unconcerned.
"Another point. Was your husband a bookish man?"
"No; he was not. He never opened a book."
"My son is essentially studious, especially in the history of Art."
Molly smiled again, but said nothing. To call Humphrey studious was, perhaps, stretching the truth; but there certainly were the rows of French novels.
"Now, my dear madam, I will ask you to set these points down side by side. That is to say, on one side resemblance in face, real or imaginary; on the other side dignity, good breeding—hereditary breeding, a constitutional gravity of carriage, studious habits, ambition, a total absence of the acting faculty. I ask you which of these qualities he could inherit from your husband? As we are here alone, I would ask you which of these qualities he could inherit from you?"
She paused for a reply. There was none. Alice looked at Molly and sighed. Molly smiled and looked straight before her.