ns which with many easily moved persons break forth in tears.
All who have observed much are aware that some men, who have seen a good
deal of life in its less chastened aspects and are anything but modest,
will blush often and easily, while there are delicate and sensitive women
who can faint, or go into fits, if necessary, but are very rarely seen to
betray their feelings in their cheeks, even when their expression shows
that their inmost soul is blushing scarlet. Presently she answered,
abruptly and scornfully, "Mr. Langdon is a gentleman, and would not vex
me as you do."

"A gentleman!" Dick answered, with the most insulting accent,--"a
gentleman! Come, Elsie, you 've got the Dudley blood in your veins, and
it does n't do for you to call this poor, sneaking schoolmaster a
gentleman!"

He stopped short. Elsie's bosom was heaving, the faint flush on her
cheek was becoming a vivid glow. Whether it were shame or wrath, he saw
that he had reached some deep-lying centre of emotion. There was no
longer any doubt in his mind. With another girl these signs of confusion
might mean little or nothing; with her they were decisive and final.
Elsie Venner loved Bernard Langdon.

The sudden conviction, absolute, overwhelming, which rushed upon him, had
well-nigh led to an explosion of wrath, and perhaps some terrible scene
which might have fulfilled some of old Sophy's predictions. This,
however, would never do. Dick's face whitened with his thoughts, but he
kept still until he could speak calmly.

"I've nothing against the young fellow," he said; "only I don't think
there's anything quite good enough to keep the company of people that
have the Dudley blood in them. You a'n't as proud as I am. I can't
quite make up my mind to call a schoolmaster a gentleman, though this one
may be well enough. I 've nothing against him, at any rate."

Elsie made no answer, but glided out of the room and slid away to her own
apartment. She bolted the door and drew her curtains close. Then she
threw herself on the floor, and fell into a dull, slow ache of passion,
without tears, without words, almost without thoughts. So she remained,
perhaps, for a half-hour, at the end of which time it seemed that her
passion had become a sullen purpose. She arose, and, looking cautiously
round, went to the hearth, which was ornamented with curious old Dutch
tiles, with pictures of Scripture subjects. One of these represented the
lifting of the