“I understand that the son inherits all his father's talent.”
“He sketches delightfully.”
“And Mavering wrote. Why, he was our class poet!” cried Munt, remembering the fact with surprise and gratification to himself. “He was a tremendous satirist.”
“Really? And he seems so amiable now.”
“Oh, it was only on paper.”
“Perhaps he still keeps it up—on wall-paper?” suggested Mrs. Pasmer.
Munt laughed at the little joke with a good-will that flattered the veteran flatterer. “I should like to ask him that some time. Will you lend it to me?”
“Yes, if such a sayer of good things will deign to borrow—”
“Oh, Mrs. Pasmer!” cried Munt, otherwise speechless.
“And the mother? Do you know Mrs. Mavering?”