He checked himself, and Teresa waited, expecting him to say more. As he was still silent, she remarked thoughtfully and with a slight hesitation—
“It is so difficult for us to throw ourselves into these foreign natures. We insist on judging them by our own standards. Yet,”—she laughed and broke off—“I find it dreadfully hard to have one standard for myself and another for other people, don’t you?”
It is doubtful whether Wilbraham had ever attempted it. What he did not approve of he banned. But he was not thinking of this.
“One knows what is right, I’m sure, always,” said Sylvia, trying to keep up with the talk.
“You do, dear, for yourself, I think, always,” Teresa returned quickly, looking at her kindly. “And what is more, you would do it. Now I wish he would say something nice,” she said to herself, glancing at Wilbraham. He was looking straight ahead, apparently he had not even heard, and she began to beat her brains, going back to the subject of characteristics. “When you think of it,” she said, “there is something remarkable in a race of their standing remaining in many ways so childlike.”
“Very remarkable,” said Wilbraham grimly. “Last summer they chose to be affronted because the band in the Colonna played Wagner oftener than pleased their patriotism, so they just fell on the poor chaps, wrecked the stand, and tore the music into atoms. Nice sensible proceeding!”
“I think I’ve heard of just as sensible in London and Paris,” retorted Teresa in a smooth voice. “Would you like me to mention a few instances?”
He looked at her and they both laughed. More softly still, she put in one further word—
“Other people’s folly is so very foolish!”
“I think some of the books one reads are very foolish,” Sylvia proclaimed.