But why, asks the Child (the Child we all are, when it comes to a story), why was the King so wonderful? Was it because he was one of our Plain People?
And the story-teller turns back over the pages wistfully—on each of them, for her, is written a little of the great tragedy and great sublimity of Life. “It was because he couldn’t be one” (she says finally), “because he couldn’t be a Plain Person; but had nevertheless the supreme courage to demand for his son what he could never have for himself. And I think, in the power to make this subtlest of sacrifices, every man is King; and every King that divinely privileged creature: a Plain Man.”
IX
LUCIA—A MERE WIFE
“I’ve come,” said Lucia, “for a very long visit.”
Something in the weary little sigh with which she threw herself down on the sofa, made her mother look up, arrested.
“You—you don’t mean that you aren’t happy, my dear?” she asked uncertainly.
Lucia gave a faint smile. “At least I’m not unhappy. I wish” (with sudden vehemence) “I were. I wish——”
Mrs. Loring took an apprehensive step towards her.
“There, mother, it’s all right. I’m a little tired, and—and unstrung with seeing you again, that’s all. It’s all right.”