Washington Square by Henry James Page B

exercise of my profession, to my nephews and nieces.”
    Mrs. Montgomery dropped her eyes at this, and sat for some time gazing at the straw matting which covered her floor.
    â€œI suppose it seems to you,” said the doctor, laughing, “that in so doing I should play your brother a very shabby trick.”
    â€œNot at all. That is too much money to get possession of so easily by marrying. I don’t think it would be right.”
    â€œIt’s right to get all one can. But in this case your brother wouldn’t be able. If Catherine marries without my consent, she doesn’t get a penny from my own pocket.”
    â€œIs that certain?” asked Mrs. Montgomery, looking up.
    â€œAs certain as that I sit here.”
    â€œEven if she should pine away?”
    â€œEven if she should pine to a shadow, which isn’t probable.”
    â€œDoes Morris know this?”
    â€œI shall be most happy to inform him,” the doctor exclaimed.
    Mrs. Montgomery resumed her meditations; and her visitor, who was prepared to give time to the affair, asked himself whether, in spite of her little conscientious air, she was not playing into her brother’s hands. At the same time he was half ashamed of the ordeal to which he had subjected her, and was touched by the gentleness with which she bore it. “If she were a humbug,” he said, “she would get angry, unless she be very deep indeed. It is not probable that she is as deep as that.”
    â€œWhat makes you dislike Morris so much?” she presently asked, emerging from her reflections.
    â€œI don’t dislike him in the least as a friend, as a companion. He seems to me a charming fellow, and I should think he would be excellent company. I dislike him exclusively as a son-in-law. If the only office of a son-in-law were to dine at the paternal table, I should set a high value upon your brother: He dines capitally. But that is a small part of his function, which, in general, is to be a protector and caretaker of my child, who is singularly ill-adapted to take care of herself. It is there that he doesn’t satisfy me. I confess I have nothing but my impression to go by; but I am in the habit of trusting my impression. Of course you are at liberty to contradict it flat. He strikes me as selfish and shallow.”
    Mrs. Montgomery’s eyes expanded a little, and the doctor fancied he saw the light of admiration in them. “I wonder you have discovered he is selfish,” she exclaimed.
    â€œDo you think he hides it so well?”
    â€œVery well indeed,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “And I think we are all rather selfish,” she added quickly.
    â€œI think so too; but I have seen people hide it better than he. You see I am helped by a habit I have of dividing people into classes, into types. I may easily be mistaken about your brother as an individual, but his type is written on his whole person.”
    â€œHe is very good-looking,” said Mrs. Montgomery.
    The doctor eyed her a moment. “You women are all the same! But the type to which your brother belongs was made to be the ruin of you, and you were made to be its handmaids and victims. The sign of the type in question is the determination—sometimes terrible in its quiet intensity—to accept nothing of life but its pleasures, and to secure these pleasures chiefly by the aid of your complaisant sex. Young men of this class never do anything for themselves that they can get other people to do for them, and it is the infatuation, the devotion, the superstition of others that keeps them going. These others, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, are women. What our young friends chiefly insist upon is that someone else shall suffer for them; and women do that sort of thing, as you must know, wonderfully well.” The doctor paused a moment, and then he added, abruptly, “You have suffered immensely for your brother!”
    This exclamation was