"Sometimes — I am afraid," he said with a smile.
"I suppose your greater power of nerve and of guarding appearances, is one secret of the triumphant sort of pride you wear upon occasion. There —I see it in your face now."
"I hope not," said Winthrop laughing. "The best instance of self-control that I ever saw, was most unaccompanied with any arrogance of merit or power."
"He means his mother again," thought Elizabeth.
"Was that instance in a man or a woman, Mr. Landholm?"
"It was in a woman — unfortunately for your ground."
"Not at all," said Elizabeth. "Exceptions prove nothing."
Winthrop said nothing, for his thoughts were busy with that image of sweet self-guidance which he had never known to be unsteady or fail; and which, he knew, referred all its strength and all its stableness to the keeping of another hand. Most feminine, most humble, and most sure.
"Mr. Winthrop, your mother puzzles me," said Elizabeth. "I wish I knew some of her secrets."
"I wish I did," he answered with half a sigh.