Tom tried to carry the glass to his lips, but his hand trembled so that he had to set it down on the table.
“I don't know how to say it,” began he, “and I don't know whether I ought to say it, but somehow I feel as if I could give my heart's blood if everybody would behave to me the way you do. I don't mean, mind you, so generously, but treating me as if—as if—as if—” gulped he out at last, “as if I was a gentleman.”
“And why not? As there is nothing in your station that should deny that claim, why should any presume to treat you otherwise?”
“Because I'm not one!” blurted he out; and covering his face with his hands, he sobbed bitterly.
“Come, come, my poor fellow, don't be down-hearted. I 'm not much older than yourself, but I 've seen a good deal of life; and, mark my words, the price a man puts on himself is the very highest penny the world will ever bid for him; he 'll not always get that, but he 'll never—no, never, get a farthing beyond it!”
Tom stared vacantly at the speaker, not very sure whether he understood the speech, or that it had any special application to him.
“When you come to know life as well as I do,” continued Conyers, who had now launched into a very favorite theme, “you'll learn the truth of what I say. Hold your head high; and if the world desires to see you, it must at least look up!”
“Ay, but it might laugh too!” said Tom, with a bitter gravity, which considerably disconcerted the moralist, who pitched away his cigar impatiently, and set about selecting another.
“I suspect I understand your nature. For,” said he, after a moment or two, “I have rather a knack in reading people. Just answer me frankly a few questions.”
“Whatever you like,” said the other, in a half-sulky sort of manner.