"Very likely there are people
who are so constituted, but they are not my kind.
I don't want to hear them tell about it. To me poverty
is the horror--the unmentionable horror!"
"There never was a day that I didn't feel THAT!"
Thorpe put fervour into his voice. "I was never
reconciled to it for a minute. I never ceased swearing
to myself that I'd pull myself out of it. And that's
what makes me sort of soft-hearted now toward those--
toward those who haven't pulled themselves out of it."
"Your niece says you are soft-hearted beyond example,"
remarked Lady Cressage.
"Who could help being, to such a sweet little girl as she is?"
demanded the uncle, fondly.
"She is very nice," said the other. "If one may say
such a thing, I fancy these three months with her have
had an appreciable effect upon you. I'm sure I note
a difference."
"That's just what I've been saying to myself!" he told her.
He was visibly delighted with this corroboration.
"I've been alone practically all my life. I had no
friends to speak of--I had no fit company--I hadn't
anything but the determination to climb out of the hole.
Well, I've done that--and I've got among the kind of people
that I naturally like. But then there came the question
of whether they would like me. I tell you frankly,
that was what was worrying the heart out of me when I
first met you.
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