“Yes?” said Mrs. Pasmer, feeling herself getting hopelessly adrift in these unknown waters; but reposing a pious confidence in her pilot.
“Yes; if a sufficient number of his class said he was the best fellow in the world, he would be pretty sure to be chosen one of the First Ten in the 'Dickey'.”
“What mysteries!” gasped Mrs. Pasmer, disposed to make fun of them, but a little overawed all the same. “What in the world is the 'Dickey'?”
“It's the society that the Freshmen are the most eager to get into. They're chosen, ten at a time, by the old members, and to be one of the first ten—the only Freshmen chosen—is something quite ineffable.”
“I see.” Mrs. Pasmer fanned herself, after taking a long breath. “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
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