“It would, in fact, be old wildness,” said Craven, with a faint touch of sarcasm.
“Old wildness! What a very strange expression!”
“But I think it covers the suggested situation. And we know what old wildness is—or if we don’t some of the ‘old guard’ can teach us. But Lady Sellingworth will never be the one to give us such a horrible lesson. If there is a woman in London with true dignity, dignity of the soul, she has it. She has almost too much of it even. I could almost wish she had less.”
Braybrooke looked suddenly surprised and then alertly observant.
“Less dignity?” he queried, after a slight but significant pause.
“Yes.”
“But can a grande dame, as she is, ever have too much dignity of the soul?”
“I think even such a virtue as that can be carried to morbidity. It may become a weapon against the happiness of the one who has it. Those who have no dignity are disgusting. As Lady Sellingworth said to me, they create nausea—”
“Nausea!” interrupted Braybrooke, in an almost startled voice.
“Yes—in others. But those who have too much dignity wrap themselves up in a secret reserve, and reserve shuts out natural happiness, I think, and creates loneliness. I’m sure Lady Sellingworth feels terribly alone in that beautiful house. I know she does.”