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 always has been. He's perfectly devoted to her; and he hurried home yesterday, though he wanted very much to stay for Commencement. He's never away from her longer than he can help. She's bedridden; and you can see from the moment you enter it that it's a man's house. Daughters can't change that, you know.”
“Have you been there?” asked Mrs. Pasmer, surprised that she was getting so much information, but eager for more. “Why, how long have you known them, Etta?”
“Only since Dan
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