gentleman of himself, and do it without seriously impairing the family honour.
He had once suggested to his wife that Stuyvesant ought to go to work. He didn't care what he took up, just so he took up something. Mrs. Smith-Parvis was horrified. She would not listen to his reiterations that he didn't mean clerking in a drygoods shop, or collecting fares on a street car, or repairing electric doorbells, or anything of the kind, and she wouldn't allow him to say just what sort of work he did mean. The subject was not mentioned again for years. Stuyvesant was allowed to go on being a gentleman in his own sweet way.
One day Mrs. Smith-Parvis, to his surprise and joy, announced that she thought Stuyvesant ought to have a real chance to make something of himself,—a vocation or an avocation, she wasn't sure which,—and she couldn't see why the father of such a bright, capable boy had been so blind to the possibilities that lay before him. She actually blamed him for holding the young man back.
"I suggested some time ago, my dear," he began, in self-defence, "that the boy ought to get a job and settle down to—"
"Job? How I loathe that word. It is almost as bad as situation."
"Well, then, position," he amended. "You wouldn't hear to it."
"I have no recollection of any such conversation," said she firmly. "I have been giving the subject a great deal of thought lately. The dear boy is entitled to his opportunity. He must make a name for himself.
