"George," she again began,—she had never called him "George" before, and he felt himself sorely tempted to tell her that his name was Mr. Robinson. "George, I've brought myself to look upon you quite as a brother-in-law, you know."
"Have you?" said he. "Then you have done me an honour that does not belong to me,—and never will."
"Now don't say that, George. If you'll only bring yourself to show a little more spirit to Maryanne, all will be right yet."
What was she that she should talk to him about spirit? In these days there was no subject which was more painful to him than that of personal courage. He was well aware that he was no coward. He felt within himself an impulse that would have carried him through any danger of which the result would not have been ridiculous. He could have led a forlorn hope, or rescued female weakness from the fangs of devouring flames. But he had declined,—he acknowledged to himself that he had declined,—to be mauled by the hands of an angry butcher, who was twice his size. "One has to keep one's own path in the world," he had said to himself; "but, nevertheless, one avoids a chimney-sweeper. Should I have gained anything had I allowed that huge monster to hammer at me?" So he had argued. But, though he had thus argued, he had been angry with himself, and now he could not bear to be told that he had lacked spirit.
"That is my affair," he replied to her. "But those about me will find that I do not lack spirit when I find fitting occasion to use it."
"No; I'm sure they won't. And now's the time, George. You're not going to let that fellow Brisket run off with Maryanne from before your eyes."
"He's at liberty to run anywhere for me."
"Now, look here, George. I know you're fond of her."
"No. I was once; but I've torn her from my heart."
"That's nonsense, George. The fact is, the more she gives herself airs and makes herself scarce and stiff to you, the more precious you think her." Ignorant as the woman was of almost everything, she did know something of human nature.