THE AWKWARD AGE
tention. "Know what you mean, dearest lady? How can a man handicapped to death, a man of my origin, my appearance, my general weaknesses, drawbacks, immense indebtedness, all round, for the start, as it were, that I feel my friends have been so good as to allow me: how can such a man not be conscious, every moment, that every one about him goes on tiptoe and winks at every one else? What can you all mention in my presence, poor things, that isn't personal?"
Mrs. Brookenham's face covered him for an instant as no painted Madonna's had ever covered the little charge at the breast beneath it. "And the finest thing of all in you is your beautiful, beautiful pride! You're prouder than all of us put together." She checked a motion that he had apparently meant as a protest—she went on with her muffled wisdom. "There isn't a man but you whom Petherton wouldn't have made vulgar. He isn't vulgar himself—at least not exceptionally; but he's just one of those people, a class one knows well, who are so fearfully, in this country, the cause of it in others. For all I know he's the cause of it in me—the cause of it even in poor Edward. For I'm vulgar, Mitchy dear—very often; and the marvel of you is that you never are."
"Thank you for everything. Thank you above all for 'marvel'!" Mitchy grinned.
"Oh, I know what I say!"—she didn't in the least blush. "I'll tell you something," she pursued with the same gravity, "if you'll promise to tell no one on earth. If you're proud, I'm not. There! It's most extraordinary, and I try to conceal it, even to myself; but there's no doubt whatever about it—I'm not proud pour deux sous. And some day, on some awful occasion, I shall show it. So—I notify you. Shall you love me still?"
"To the bitter end," Mitchy loyally responded. "For how can, how need, a woman be 'proud' who's so preternaturally clever? Pride's only for use when wit breaks
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