“Nor I,” said Charles, more gravely. “I am afraid that this is a dangerous sort of life for me. You never seem to be in the same peril as myself; I suppose because you are a better pilgrim.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Ernest; “you cannot look into my heart; but every one knows his own temptations best. The truth is, that I cannot enjoy society so much, because I always feel that I am not sufficiently educated, and am in constant fear of exposing myself, and being laughed at. There is no possible merit in this.”
“No; if that is all your protection from worldliness, I should call it a very poor one.”
“Yes; for if it protects me on the one side, it exposes me to danger on the other. Do you know, Charles, that nothing astonishes me so much in myself, as the cowardice that I find that I possess.”
“You manage well, for no one finds it out but yourself.”
“I must care for the world, or I should not fear its ridicule. I was always thought rather courageous before I became a peer; I know that I used to speak out truth pretty boldly in our cottage; but there is nothing that I dread so much as the quiet sarcastic smile on well-bred lips. I sometimes fancy,” he added, laughing, “that I should mind it less if there were any chance of its being followed by a blow.”
“Well, this much I can say for you, Ernest—I have never yet seen this fear draw you one step from the narrow path.”
“I could not say as much for myself, dear brother. The world is a dangerous place.”
“Which would you call the principal temptations of Vanity Fair?” said Charles.