“Well, yes, you might say thumb,” Dan consented, feeling it useless to defend the Pasmers against this analysis.
“We won't say heel,” returned his mother; “we're too polite. And your father says he had the reputation in college of being one of the most selfish fellows in the world. He's never done anything since but lose most of his money. He's been absolutely idle and useless all his days.” She turned her vivid blue eyes suddenly upon her son's.
Dan winced. “You know how hard father is upon people who haven't done anything. It's a mania of his. Of course Mr. Pasmer doesn't show to advantage where there's no—no leisure class.”
“Poor man!”
Dan was going to say, “He's very amiable, though,” but he was afraid of his mother's retorting, “To you?” and he held his peace, looking chapfallen.
Whether his mother took pity on him or not, her next sally was consoling. “But your Alice may not take after either of them. Her father is the worst of his breed, it seems; the rest are useful people, from what your father knows, and there's a great deal to be hoped for collaterally. She had an uncle in college at the same time who was everything that her father was not.”
“One of her aunts is in one of those Protestant religious houses in England,” repeated Dan.
“Oh!” said his mother shortly, “I don't know that I like that particularly. But probably she isn't useless there. Is Alice very religious?”
“Well, I suppose,” said Dan, with a smile for the devotions that came into his thought, “she's what would be called 'Piscopal pious.”
Mrs. Mavering referred to the photograph, which she still held in her hand. “Well, she's pure and good, at any rate. I suppose you look forward to a long engagement?”