“I—don’t—know,” replied the girl. “It isn’t a bit like me to marry out of my own class. At first I laughed at myself for even imagining I’d really marry Chang. I was fascinated by him—everything he said and did—and the way he said or did it—the way his hair grew—the way his clothes fit—the way he blew smoke out of his mouth—the way he held his palette—and his long brushes— You see, mother, I was infatuated with him. Isn’t he splendid to look at?”
“He certainly is strikingly handsome,” admitted Mrs. Richmond. “But hardly more so than Peter.”
“Oh, mother!” laughed out Beatrice. “You are not that undiscriminating. There’s all the difference between them that there is between—between a god and a mere mortal.” Contrasting the two men seemed to fire the girl afresh. “Yes, I do want Chang,” she cried. “I’d be enormously proud to have such a man to exhibit as my husband.”
“But think, my dear! He’s nobody!”
“You heard d’Artois——”
“Yes—but if he were to try to marry d’Artois’s sister——”
“I know. I understand,” said Beatrice impatiently. “I wish he were a real somebody. Still, he probably comes of as good a family as we do.” She rose and faced her mother. “When I’m with him I’m ashamed of being so—so cheap. When I see him beside Peter I’d laugh at anybody who talked such snobbishness. But— Oh, I’ve been so rottenly brought up! No wonder he won’t have me! If he knew me as I am he’d spurn me.” Her expression softened to loving tenderness. “No, he wouldn’t. He’s big and broad. He’d understand and sympathize—and try to help me to be worthy of him. And I will be!”
Her mother looked at her with the uncertain expression one sees on the faces of the deaf when they are making pretense of having heard and understood. “You’re very queer, Beatrice,” said she.
“Ain’t I, though!” exclaimed the girl. “I guess you were right a while ago. I guess I’m crazy.”
“Don’t you think we’d better go abroad right away, instead of waiting till June?”