"And
when he had got into the------"

"Then it would depend upon himself, how he spent his money, and all
that, and what sort of society success he was in Boston. That has
a great deal to do with it from the first. Then another thing is
caution--discreetness; not saying anything censorious or critical of
other men, no matter what they do. And Dan Mavering is the perfection of
prudence, because he's the perfection of good-nature."

Mrs. Pasmer had apparently got all of these facts that she could digest.
"And who are the Maverings?"

"Why, it's an old Boston name--"

"It's too old, isn't it? Like Pasmer. There are no Maverings in Boston
that I ever heard of."

"No; the name's quite died out just here, I believe: but it's old, and
it bids fair to be replated at Ponkwasset Falls."

"At Ponk--"

"That's where they have their mills, or factories, or shops, or whatever
institution they make wall-paper in."

"Wall-paper!" cried Mrs. Pasmer, austerely. After a moment she asked:
"And is wall-paper the 'thing' now? I mean--" She tried to think of some
way of modifying the commonness of her phrase, but did not. After all,
it expressed her meaning.

"It isn't the extreme of fashion, of course. But it's manufacturing, and
it isn't disgraceful. And the Mavering papers are very pretty, and
you can live with them without becoming anaemic, or having your face
twitch."

"Face twitch?" echoed Mrs. Pasmer.

"Yes; arsenical poisoning."

"Oh! Conscientious as well as aesthetic. I see. And does Mr. Mavering
put his artistic temperament into them?"

"His father does. He's a very interesting man. He has the best taste in
certain things--he knows more about etchings, I suppose, than any one
else in Boston."

"Is it possible! And does he live at Ponkwasset Falls? It's in Rhode
Island, isn't it?"

"New Hampshire. Yes; the whole family live there."

"The whole family? Are there many of them? I'd fancied, somehow, that
Mr. Mavering was the only----Do tell me about them, Etta," said Mrs.
Pasmer, leaning back in her chair, and fanning herself with an effect of
impartial interest, to which the dim light of the room lent itself.

"He's the only son. But there are daughters, of course--very cultivated
girls."

"And is he--is the elder Mr. Mavering a--I don't know what made me think
so--a widower?"

"Well, no--not exactly."

"Not exactly! He's not a grass-widower, I hope?"

"No, indeed. But his wife's a helpless invalid, and a