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"I'm a small creeping thing." "You'll not persuade me that you're not as good as Charlotte Stant," he still placidly enough remarked. "I may be as good, but I'm not so great and that's what we're talking about. She has a great imagination. She has, in every way, a great attitude. She has above all a great conscience."
But it was, strangely, as a cluster of possessions of his own that these things, in Charlotte Stant, now affected him; items in a full list, items recognised, each of them, as if, for the long interval, they had been "stored" wrapped up, numbered, put away in a cabinet. While she faced Mrs.
That was what, precisely, Charlotte Stant would be doing now; that was the present motive and support, to a certainty, of each of her looks and motions. She was the twentieth woman, she was possessed by her doom, but her doom was also to arrange appearances, and what now concerned him was to learn how she proposed.
Whether it worked for Mrs. Assingham or not, the Prince was himself, at this, more than ever reassured. He was SAFE, in a word that was what it all meant; and he had required to be safe. He was really safe enough for almost any joke. "It's only," he explained to their hostess, "because of what Miss Stant has been telling me. Don't we want to keep up her courage?"
"By all that's mighty, Pixley," said the policeman, with an admiration that was almost reverence, "you are a schemer!" "Mein Gott!" screeched Bertha's uncle, snapping his teeth fiercely on his pipe-stem, as he flung open the door of the girl's room. "You want to disgraze me mit der whole neighbourhoot, 'lection night? Quid ut! Stob ut! Beoples in der streed stant owidside und litzen to dod grying.
"What do you mean by 'properly'? I somehow see volumes in it. It's the way people put a thing when they put it well, wrong. I put things right. What is it that has happened for me?" His hostess, the next moment, had drawn spirit from his tone. "Oh, I shall be delighted if you'll take your share of it. Charlotte Stant is in London. She has just been here." "Miss Stant? Oh really?"
Oh, with this, for him, the thing was clearer! "Then you needn't think. I know enough what it is for me to do." But she shook her head again. "I doubt if you know. I doubt if you CAN." "And why not, please when I've had you so before me? That I'm old has at least THAT fact about it to the good that I've known you long and from far back." "Do you think you've 'known' me?" asked Charlotte Stant.
Now, after the failure of "Mortimer Stant" for the first time, this awful question "What if, after all, you should be an Ordinary Creature? What if you are no better than that army who fights happily, contentedly, with mediocrity for its daily bread and butter?
They presently thereafter left the house together and drew out half-an-hour on the terrace in a manner they were to revert to in thought, later on, as that of persons who really had been taking leave of each other at a parting of the ways. He traced his impression, on coming to consider, back to a mere three words she had begun by using about Charlotte Stant.
Every evening, after dinner, Charlotte Stant played to him; seated at the piano and requiring no music, she went through his "favourite things" and he had many favourites with a facility that never failed, or that failed but just enough to pick itself up at a touch from his fitful voice.
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