“Dear me!” cried Mrs. Pasmer.  “But of course!  It’s perfectly natural, with young people.  And it’s well enough that they should begin to understand how things really are in the world early; it will save them from a great many disappointments.”

“I assure you we have very little to teach Harvard men in those matters.  They could give any of us points.  Those who are of good family and station know how to protect themselves by reserves that the others wouldn’t dare to transgress.  But a merely rich man couldn’t rise in their set any more than a merely gifted man.  He could get on to a certain point by toadying, and some do; but he would never get to be popular, like Dan Mavering.”

“And what makes him popular?—­to go back to the point we started from,” said Mrs. Pasmer.

“Ah, that’s hard to say.  It’s—­quality, I suppose.  I don’t mean social quality, exactly; but personal charm.  He never had a mean thought; of course we’re all full of mean thoughts, and Dan is too; but his first impulse is always generous and sweet, and at his age people act a great deal from impulse.  I don’t suppose he ever met a human being without wanting to make him like him, and trying to do it.”

“Yes, he certainly makes you like him,” sighed Mrs. Pasmer.  “But I understand that he can’t make people like him without family or money; and I don’t understand that he’s one of those ‘nouveaux riches’ who are giving Harvard such a reputation for extravagance nowadays.”

There was an inquiring note in Mrs. Pasmer’s voice; and in the syringa-scented obscurity, which protected the ladies from the expression of each other’s faces, Mrs. Saintsbury gave a little laugh of intelligence, to which Mrs. Pasmer responded by a murmur of humorous enjoyment at being understood.

“Oh no!  He isn’t one of those.  But the Maverings have plenty of money,” said Mrs. Saintsbury, “and Dan’s been very free with it, though not lavish.  And he came here with a reputation for popularity from a very good school, and that always goes a very great way in college.”

“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.”