For me life has nothing else,
except the things that other people do, better and worse
than mine."
"Better and worse than yours," Kendal repeated. "Can't
you think of them apart?"
"No, I can't," Elfrida interrupted; "I've tried, and I
can _not_. I know it's a weakness--at least I'm half
persuaded that it is--but I must have the personal standard
in everything."
"But you are a hero-worshipper; often I have seen you
at it."
"Yes," she said cynically, while the white-capped maid
who handed Kendal asparagus stared at her with a curiosity
few of the Hyacinth's lady diners inspired, "and when I
look into that I find it is because of a secret
consciousness that tells me that I, in the hero's place,
should have done just the same thing. Or else it is
because of the gratification my vanity finds in my sympathy
with his work, whatever it is. Oh, it is no special
virtue, my kind of hero-worship." The girl looked across
at Kendal and laughed a bright, frank laugh, in which
was no discontent with what she had been telling him.
"You are candid," Kendal said.
"Oh yes, I'm candid. I don't mind lying for a noble end,
but it isn't a noble end to deceive one's self."
"'Oh, purblind race of miserable men--'" Kendal began
lightly, but she stopped him.
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