“But it’s due to me, see. Why not?” And her great eyes flashed triumphantly into the glass. “‘I will attain’ like Paracelsus.”
She laughed again but her mirth had a jar in it.
“He went the wrong way about it,” remarked Mrs. Fellowes placidly, “take care you don’t do the same!”
“He was a fraud to begin with, I’m not, neither in brain nor body.”
Mrs. Fellowes looked at her critically, “the outside of you is flawless enough, and, goodness knows! you are all there as far as brain goes. But I’m not so sure as to the inside of you; there, an inch or so to the left of that diamond star, I believe you are perfectly empty!”
“Ugh! That’s empty of course, except for the bits of you and the rector it holds, there’s been nothing to fill it.”
“A thing must have a capacity for holding before it can hold, my good child, and original capacity dwindles from disuse, as your father’s daughter must know. Atrophy is the word in your jargon, isn’t it?”
“Oh, all glory doesn’t come through that mawkish muscle! I have lived for nineteen years without anything to try the holding capacity of mine, and I can go on for a while yet and get my glory through other channels.”
“No, you can’t, a woman’s crown of glory comes through her heart or it isn’t worth the wearing, her heart leads her reason, and is often the surer guide into the bargain.”
“Why do you speak like this,” said the girl, flushing, and flashing out a white arm towards her, “on my coming-out night? It isn’t fair of you!”