"Yes, I know all that—or I have guessed it from what you have told me. And what then?"
"Do you think of the difference between us? What am I?"
"You are an artist, a gentleman, and a man of talent."
"Even were it so, I earn, for my entire income, less in all probability than this young lady spends for her wardrobe in a single year."
"That may be, Frederic."
"And yet you bid me hope?"
"Yes, I bid you hope. If Miss Dearborn is what I think she is, she will not set an undue estimate upon wealth. She will understand how many vulgar and ill-bred men possess it, and will rate higher the talent, the refinement, and the culture of a gentleman, and the good heart that makes him ever a loyal and affectionate son. Such a man cannot fail to make a desirable husband."
"Ah, mother," said Vernon, smiling, "you are a mother, and, like all mothers, you overrate your son. If Grace would but look upon me with your eyes, perhaps I might hope. As it is, were I to open my lips to her, I should only subject myself to the mortification of having my suit contemptuously spurned."
"That would never be. Even if rejected, there would be nothing to injure your pride or bring a blush of mortification to your cheek."
"I think you are right there, mother. Grace is too gentle, too much of a lady, to let me see how unjustifiable were my hopes."