“The little witch has been teasing me all this while. She is not the little ignoramus and madcap I believed her at first. She has been well-educated, her voice is thoroughly trained. No wonder she laughed when I wanted her to go to school again,” he said to himself, but instead of being angry with her, he experienced pleasure in finding out that she had culture he had not dreamed she possessed.
The long poem came to an end at last and Molly folded her small hands together over the page. Her listener started up to a sitting posture.
“Thank you, for the pleasure you have given me,” he said, earnestly. “It is indeed a grand poem.”
“I scarcely expected you to say so,” she retorted, meaningly. “I thought you were too proud. How can you reconcile yourself to the idea of the Lady Geraldine marrying so far beneath her in station—you who are always taking for a text my poor father’s mésalliance?”
“This case was different—the poet’s genius leveled the barrier between him and the earl’s daughter—raised him to her rank,” he replied.
“My—step-mother—had genius. She was a star of the dramatic stage. She gave up a brilliant career to marry the man she loved, yet you condemn her as unworthy,” Molly said, excitedly, with flashing eyes.
He frowned.
“Why will you always drag that into the conversation? You have owned of your own accord that that woman’s daughter was sly and disagreeable—a real tiger-cat!” he exclaimed.
“Ah, I see that poetic license is not to be carried into real life,” she replied, falling from seriousness into levity. Then, gayly: “And are you sure, quite sure, that you should not fall in love with golden hair and golden eyes, and l’air noble?”
“Quite sure,” he replied, with disdain.