The Place Called Dagon by Herbert Gorman

The girl's eyes were like wet violets, a soaked blue so deep as to be astonishing. Mrs. Slater had said: "Deborah. This is Doctor Dreeme. " and then she had added in a grudging tone: "My niece. Deborah is my niece. " Dreeme remembered that he had bowed and mumbled vaguely in his throat. It did not surprise him that Mrs. Slater had a niece. She looked as though she had nieces. Besides, all New Englanders had nieces. It was the penalty of the country. That. or. well, perhaps, no nieces. It was all a question of family, of children, of course. Grandfathers were at a premium in New England now but nieces and nephews and cousins were the common coinage of pride. It was impossible to go into a musty Back Bay parlor, for instance, without hearing something about: "He's a cousin of. " or "She's the niece of. " It was like that. Being reduced to mop up one's lesser relatives, so to speak. Or to reach out through a dubious cousinal (could there be such a word? ) connection and so getting a foot in. Families scattered and broke up; the main stem shattered; there was nothing but twigs left. "I am a twig of the Winthrops. " A windblown twig without any leaves. Mrs. Slater scraped his chair back and he sank into it. She was staring at him with fluttering eyes. There were snapping eyes all around the table. He was getting choppy in his thoughts. Choppy. choppy.

He assumed a bland indifference and waited for the smoking bowl of cabbage to be pushed his way. The long red slices of corned beef lay like so many tongues at his elbow. He forked one neatly and slapped it onto his plate.