"But you are a silk purse!" Sara protested indignantly. "How can you talk about yourself the way you do?"
"I'm a little down on my luck these days," he answered. "Did you ever read about the moth who loved a star? I guess, when that moth got to thinking of himself and his chances, he saw himself pretty well as he really was, poor old chap. Fusty brown wings, too many legs, antennae the wrong shape, and a clumsy way of usin' 'em. I've gone and made a moth of myself, Miss Wilkins."
"Maybe the star doesn't think you a moth, or anyhow not a common moth," the little school-teacher tried to comfort him loyally, though her heart ached as a lonely woman's heart must ache when the man she could have loved, if she had dared, confides in her about the "other." She had known quite well that there was another, but to have the confession come out in words seemed to make her feel the grayness of life rather more intensely than she had felt it before. Yet she rallied her forces and longed to fight Nick Hilliard's battles and wave his banner in the face of the enemy—if enemy there were.
"That's just what the star does think!" laughed Nick. "She thinks I'm common."
Miss Wilkins stiffened with indignation. "I don't believe it—if she's a real star. And you wouldn't mistake an imitation one for real, would you?"
"She's the brightest star in the heavens; as good as a whole constellation."
"Then she can't think you common."
"Well, put in another way. She thinks me 'impossible'—impossible for her, that is. She told me so. But I might have known it without telling. I guess she thought I would know. I had the cheek to hope, though, that I might polish myself up enough to pass muster in a crowd, even a crowd of her sort of people, and that she might change her mind about me."
"As if that disgusting little Montagu Jerrold could teach you anything!"
"I found he couldn't. Not anything she'd like me better for knowing."