"Ah! yes," he sighed. "It's a commercial age."
"No!" exclaimed Miss Raby, so irritably that Elizabeth looked back to see what was wrong. "You are stupid. Kindness and money are both quite easy to part with. The only thing worth giving away is yourself. Did you ever give yourself away?"
"Frequently."
"I mean, did you ever, intentionally, make a fool of yourself before your inferiors?"
"Intentionally, never." He saw at last what she was driving at. It was her pleasure to pretend that such self-exposure was the only possible basis of true intercourse, the only gate in the spiritual barrier that divided class from class. One of her books had dealt with the subject; and very agreeable reading it made. "What about you?" he added playfully.
"I've never done it properly. Hitherto I've never felt a really big fool; but when I do, I hope I shall show it plainly."
"May I be there!"
"You might not like it," she replied. "I may feel it at any moment and in mixed company. Anything might set me off."
"Behold Vorta!" cried the driver, cutting short the sprightly conversation. He and Elizabeth and the carriage had reached the top of the hill. The black woods ceased; and they emerged into a valley whose sides were emerald lawns, rippling and doubling and merging each into each, yet always with an upward trend, so that it was 2000 feet to where the rock burst out of the grass and made great mountains, whose pinnacles were delicate in the purity of evening.
The driver, who had the gift of repetition, said: "Vorta! Vorta!"