Yet something--perhaps it was a form of national pride--stung her to the
task, moreover stung her to do her best and place beyond the reach of
these dark hands a high and splendid figure of English ideals.
To help herself, she sought through the lumber-rooms of her memory, and
drew thence a hundred ideas, thoughts and conceptions which had belonged
to a short--terribly short--childhood. Like a middle-aged woman who comes
suddenly upon a hoard of long since forgotten toys, and feels an emotion
half pitying, half regretful, so Beatrice Cary displayed to her companion
things that for years had lain forsaken and neglected in the background of
her mind. The dust lay thick upon them--and yet they were well enough.
They would have been beautiful, had she believed in them, but, like the
toys, they had lost the glamour and illusionary light in which her youth
and imagination had bathed them.
"Our highest ideal of a man we call a gentleman," she said slowly. "It is
a much-abused term, but it can mean a very great deal. What his appearance
is does not so much matter--indeed, when one looks into it, it does not
matter at all, save that you will find that the ugliest face can often
give you an index to a lovely character. The chief thing that we require
of him is that he should be above all meanness and pettiness. He must be
great-thinking and great-feeling for himself and others, especially for
others.
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