Shouldn't one, at the start, show the worst—so that anything after that may be better?
It wouldn't make any real difference—it won't make any, anything that may happen won't—to any one.
Therefore I feel myself, this way, with you, just as I am; and—if you do in the least care to know—it quite positively bears me up."
She put it as to his caring to know, because his manner seemed to give her all her chance, and the impression was there for her to take.
It was strange and deep for her, this impression, and she did, accordingly, take it straight home.
It showed him—showed him in spite of himself—as allowing, somewhere far within, things comparatively remote, things in fact quite, as she would have said, outside, delicately to weigh with him; showed him as interested, on her behalf, in other questions beside the question of what was the matter with her.
She accepted such an interest as regular in the highest type of scientific mind—his being the even highest, magnificently because otherwise, obviously, it wouldn't be there; but she could at the same time take it as a direct source of light upon herself, even though that might present her a little as pretending to equal him.
Wanting to know more about a patient than how a patient was constructed or deranged couldn't be, even on the part of the greatest of doctors, anything but some form or other of the desire to let the patient down easily.
When that was the case the reason, in turn, could only be, too manifestly, pity; and when pity held up its tell-tale face like a head on a pike, in a French revolution, bobbing before a window, what was the inference but that the patient was bad?
He might say what he would now—she would always have seen the head at the window; and in fact from this moment she only wanted him to say what he would.
He might say it too with the greater ease to himself as there wasn't one of her divinations that—as her own—he would in any way put himself out for.
Finally, if he was making her talk she was talking; and what it could, at any rate, come to for him was that she wasn't afraid.
If he wanted to do the dearest thing in the world for her he would show her he believed she wasn't; which undertaking of hers—not to have misled him—was what she counted at the moment as her presumptuous little hint to him that she was as good as himself.
It put forward the bold idea that he could really be misled; and there actually passed between them for some seconds a sign, a sign of the eyes only, that they knew together where they were.
This made, in their brown old temple of truth, its momentary flicker; then what followed it was that he had her, all the same, in his pocket; and the whole thing wound up, for that consummation, with its kind dim smile.
Such kindness was wonderful with such dimness; but brightness—that even of sharp steel—was of course for the other side of the business, and it would all come in for her in one way or another.
"Do you mean," he asked, "that you've no relations at all?—not a parent, not a sister, not even a cousin nor an aunt?"
She shook her head as with the easy habit of an interviewed heroine or a freak of nature at a show.
"Nobody whatever." But the last thing she had come for was to be dreary about it. "I'm a survivor—a survivor of a general wreck.
You see," she added, "how that's to be taken into account—that everyone else has gone.
When I was ten years old there were, with my father and my mother, six of us.
I'm all that's left.
But they died," she went on, to be fair all round, "of different things.
Still, there it is.
And, as I told you before, I'm American.
Not that I mean that makes me worse.
However, you'll probably know what it makes me."
"Yes," he discreetly indulged her; "I know perfectly what it makes you.
It makes you, to begin with, a capital case."
She sighed, though gratefully, as if again before the social scene.
"Ah, there you are!"
"Oh, no; there 'we' aren't at all.
There I am only—but as much as you like.
I've no end of American friends: there they are, if you please, and it's a fact that you couldn't very well be in a better place than in their company.
It puts you with plenty of others—and that isn't pure solitude." Then he pursued: "I'm sure you've an excellent spirit; but don't try to bear more things than you need." Which after an instant he further explained. "Hard things have come to you in youth, but you mustn't think life will be for you all hard things.
You've the right to be happy.
You must make up your mind to it.
You must accept any form in which happiness may come."
"Oh, I'll accept any whatever!" she almost gaily returned. "And it seems to me, for that matter, that I'm accepting a new one every day.
Now this!" she smiled.
"This is very well so far as it goes.
You can depend on me," the great man said, "for unlimited interest.
But I'm only, after all, one element in fifty.
We must gather in plenty of others.
Don't mind who knows.
Knows, I mean, that you and I are friends."
"Ah, you do want to see some one!" she broke out. "You want to get at some one who cares for me."
With which, however, as he simply met this spontaneity in a manner to show that he had often had it from young persons of her race, and that he was familiar even with the possibilities of their familiarity, she felt her freedom rendered vain by his silence, and she immediately tried to think of the most reasonable thing she could say.
This would be, precisely, on the subject of that freedom, which she now quickly spoke of as complete.
"That's of course by itself a great boon; so please don't think I don't know it.