“And your mother?” asked Mrs. Tiffany. “I suppose she was crazy for you to go.”
“Yes, I suppose she would have been. She’s been dead ten years. How hard is it to get into a law office in San Francisco?” he added, shifting.
Judge Tiffany met the direct hint with a direct parry.
“We have five thousand attorneys in San Francisco and only five hundred of them are making a living.”
“Yes, I know it is overcrowded,” said Bertram Chester, not a particle abashed.
After black coffee on the piazza, the two college boys swung off down the lane, Bertram smoking rapidly at one of the Judge’s cigars.
“He can be almost anything,” said the Judge, meditatively.
“Even a gentleman?” gently inquired Mrs. Tiffany.
“Perhaps that isn’t necessary in our Western way of life. Thank God, we haven’t come yet to the point where the caste of Vere de Vere is necessary to us.”