“Shame! why, the very approach to them is an honor. When a lord in the ring at Newmarket nods his head to me and says, 'How d' ye do, Davis?' my pals—my acquaintances, I mean—are twice as respectful to me for the rest of the day. Not that I care for that,” added he, sternly; “I know them a deuced sight better than they fancy!—far better than they know me!”
Lizzy fell into a revery; her thoughts went back to a conversation she had once held with Beecher about the habits of the great world, and all the difficulties to its approach.
“I wish I could dare to put a question to you, papa,” said she, at last.
“Do so, girl. I 'll do my best to answer it”
“And not be angry at my presumption,—not be offended with me?”
“Not a bit. Be frank with me, and you 'll find me just as candid.”
“What I would ask, then, is this,—and mind, papa, it is in no mere curiosity, no idle indulgence of a passing whim I would ask it, but for sake of self-guidance and direction,—who are we?—what are we?”
The blood rose to Davis's face and temples till he became crimson; his nostrils dilated, and his eyes flashed with a wild lustre. Had the bitterest insult of an enemy been hurled at his face before the open world, his countenance could not have betrayed an expression of more intense passion.
“By heaven!” said he, with a long-drawn breath, “I did n't think there was one in Europe would have asked me that much to my face. There's no denying it, girl, you have my own pluck in you.”
“If I ever thought it would have moved you so—”