The Dust [126]
she would have felt his intonation. She paled and shrank and her slim white fingers fluttered nervously at the collar of her dress. "I was only joking," she murmured.
He laughed good-naturedly. "Don't look as if I had given you a whipping," said he. "Surely you're not afraid of me."
She glanced shyly at him, a smile dancing in her eyes and upon her lips. "Yes," she said. And after a pause she added: "I didn't used to be. But that was because I didn't know you--or much of anything." The smile irradiated her whole face. "You used to be afraid of me. But you aren't, any more."
"No," said he, looking straight at her. "No, I'm not."
"I always told you you were mistaken in what you thought of me. I really don't amount to much. A man as serious and as important as you are couldn't-- couldn't care about me."
"It's true you don't amount to much, as yet," said he. "And if you never do amount to much, you'd be no less than most women and most men. But I've an idea --at times--that you COULD amount to something."
He saw that he had wounded her vanity, that her protestations of humility were precisely what he had suspected. He laughed at her: "I see you thought I'd contradict you. But I can't afford to be so amiable now. And the first thing you've got to get rid of is the part of your vanity that prevents you from growing. Vanity of belief in one's possibilities is fine. No one gets anywhere without it. But vanity of belief in one's present perfection--no one but a god could afford that luxury."
Observing her closely he was amused--and pleased --to note that she was struggling to compose herself to endure his candors as a necessary part of the duties and obligations she had taken on herself when she gave up and returned to him.
"What YOU thought of ME used to be the important thing in our relations," he went on, in his way of raillery that took all or nearly all the sting out of what he said, but none of its strength. "Now, the important thing is what I think of you. You are much younger than I, especially in experience. You are going to school to life with me as teacher. You'll dislike the teacher for the severity of the school. That isn't just, but it's natural--perhaps inevitable. And please--my dear-- when you are bitterest over what YOU have to put up with from ME--don't forget what _I_ have to put up with from YOU."
She was fighting bravely against angry tears. As for him, he had suddenly become indifferent to what the people around them might be thinking. With all his old arrogance come back in full flood, he was feeling that he would live his own life in his own way and that those who didn't approve--yes, including Dorothy-- might do as they saw fit. She said:
"I don't blame you for regretting that you didn't marry Miss Burroughs."
"But I don't regret it," replied he. "On the contrary, I'm glad."
She glanced hopefully at him. But the hopeful expression faded as he went on:
"Whether or not I made a mistake in marrying you, I certainly had an escape from disaster when she decided she preferred a foreigner and a title. There's a good sensible reason why so many girls of her class-- more and more all the time--marry abroad. They are not fit to be the wives of hard-working American husbands. In fact I've about reached the conclusion that of the girls growing up nowdays very few in any class are fit to be American wives. They're not big enough. They're too coarse and crude in their tastes. They're only fit for the shallow, showy sort of thing--and the European aristocracy is their hope--and their place."
Her small face had a fascinating expression of a
{illust. caption = "At Josephine s right sat a handsome young foreigner."}
child trying to understand things far beyond its depth. He was interested in his own thoughts, however, and went on--for, if he had been in the habit of stopping when his hearers failed to understand, or when they misunderstood, either he would have been silent most of the time in company or his conversation would have been
He laughed good-naturedly. "Don't look as if I had given you a whipping," said he. "Surely you're not afraid of me."
She glanced shyly at him, a smile dancing in her eyes and upon her lips. "Yes," she said. And after a pause she added: "I didn't used to be. But that was because I didn't know you--or much of anything." The smile irradiated her whole face. "You used to be afraid of me. But you aren't, any more."
"No," said he, looking straight at her. "No, I'm not."
"I always told you you were mistaken in what you thought of me. I really don't amount to much. A man as serious and as important as you are couldn't-- couldn't care about me."
"It's true you don't amount to much, as yet," said he. "And if you never do amount to much, you'd be no less than most women and most men. But I've an idea --at times--that you COULD amount to something."
He saw that he had wounded her vanity, that her protestations of humility were precisely what he had suspected. He laughed at her: "I see you thought I'd contradict you. But I can't afford to be so amiable now. And the first thing you've got to get rid of is the part of your vanity that prevents you from growing. Vanity of belief in one's possibilities is fine. No one gets anywhere without it. But vanity of belief in one's present perfection--no one but a god could afford that luxury."
Observing her closely he was amused--and pleased --to note that she was struggling to compose herself to endure his candors as a necessary part of the duties and obligations she had taken on herself when she gave up and returned to him.
"What YOU thought of ME used to be the important thing in our relations," he went on, in his way of raillery that took all or nearly all the sting out of what he said, but none of its strength. "Now, the important thing is what I think of you. You are much younger than I, especially in experience. You are going to school to life with me as teacher. You'll dislike the teacher for the severity of the school. That isn't just, but it's natural--perhaps inevitable. And please--my dear-- when you are bitterest over what YOU have to put up with from ME--don't forget what _I_ have to put up with from YOU."
She was fighting bravely against angry tears. As for him, he had suddenly become indifferent to what the people around them might be thinking. With all his old arrogance come back in full flood, he was feeling that he would live his own life in his own way and that those who didn't approve--yes, including Dorothy-- might do as they saw fit. She said:
"I don't blame you for regretting that you didn't marry Miss Burroughs."
"But I don't regret it," replied he. "On the contrary, I'm glad."
She glanced hopefully at him. But the hopeful expression faded as he went on:
"Whether or not I made a mistake in marrying you, I certainly had an escape from disaster when she decided she preferred a foreigner and a title. There's a good sensible reason why so many girls of her class-- more and more all the time--marry abroad. They are not fit to be the wives of hard-working American husbands. In fact I've about reached the conclusion that of the girls growing up nowdays very few in any class are fit to be American wives. They're not big enough. They're too coarse and crude in their tastes. They're only fit for the shallow, showy sort of thing--and the European aristocracy is their hope--and their place."
Her small face had a fascinating expression of a
{illust. caption = "At Josephine s right sat a handsome young foreigner."}
child trying to understand things far beyond its depth. He was interested in his own thoughts, however, and went on--for, if he had been in the habit of stopping when his hearers failed to understand, or when they misunderstood, either he would have been silent most of the time in company or his conversation would have been