And the glory was abated. He
felt a little doubtful of himself, almost as a son feels sometimes in the
presence of his mother. For the first time he began to think of himself,
now and then, as the inferior of his wife, began even, now and then, to
think of man as the inferior of woman--in certain ways. Such a state of
mind was very novel in him. He stared at it as a baby stares at its toes,
with round amazement, inwardly saying, "Is this phenomenon part of me?"
There was a new gentleness in Viola, a new tenderness. Both put him--as
one lifted and dropped--a step below her. He pulled his bronze moustache
over it with vigour.
His wife showed no desire to control his proceedings, to know what he was
about. When she spoke of Miss Schley she spoke kindly, sympathetically,
but with a dainty, delicate pity, as one who secretly murmurs, "If she
had only had a chance!" Lord Holme began to think it a sad thing that she
had not had a chance. The mere thought sent the American a step down from
her throne. She stood below him now, as he stood below Viola. It seemed
to him that there was less resemblance between his wife and Miss Schley
than he had fancied. He even said so to Lady Holme. The angel smiled.
Somebody else in her smiled too. Once he remarked to the angel, /a propos
de bottes/, "We men are awful brutes sometimes." Then he paused. As she
said nothing, only looked very kind, he added, "I'll bet you think so,
Vi?"
It sounded like a question, but she preferred to give no answer, and he
walked away shaking his head over the brutishness of men.
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