ace
between us, and from the silence of which we have never for an instant
deviated, represents perhaps her wonder as to whether I mayn't on some
great occasion show her how.

The difficulty is that, alas, mere intelligent useless wretch as I am,
I've never hitherto been sure of knowing how myself; for am I too not as
steeped in fears as any of them? My fears, mostly, are different, and of
different dangers--also I hate having them, whereas they love them
and hug them to their hearts; but the fact remains that, save in this
private precinct of my overflow, which contains, under a strong little
brass lock, several bad words and many good resolutions, I have never
either said or done a bold thing in my life. What I seem always to feel,
doubtless cravenly enough, under her almost pathetic appeal, has been
that it isn't yet the occasion, the really good and right one, for
breaking out; than which nothing could more resemble of course the
inveterate argument of the helpless. ANY occasion is good enough for the
helpful; since there's never any that hasn't weak sides for their own
strength to make up. However, if there COULD be conceivably a good one,
I'll be hanged if I don't seem to see it gather now, and if I sha'n't
write myself here "poor" Charles Edward in all truth by failing to take
advantage of it, (They have in fact, I should note, one superiority
of courage to my own: this habit of their so constantly casting up my
poverty at me--poverty of character, of course I mean, for they don't,
to do them justice, taunt me with having "made" so little. They don't,
I admit, take their lives in their hands when they perform that act; the
proposition itself being that I haven't the spirit of a fished-out fly.)

My point is, at any rate, that I designate THEM as Poor only in the
abysmal confidence of these occult pages: into which I really believe
even my poor wife--for it's universal!--has never succeeded in
peeping. It will be a shock to me if I some day find she has so far
adventured--and this not on account of the curiosity felt or the liberty
taken, but on account of her having successfully disguised it. She knows
I keep an intermittent diary--I've confessed to her it's the way
in which I work things in general, my feelings and impatiences and
difficulties, off. It's the way I work off my nerves--that luxury in
which poor Charles Edward's natural narrow means--narrow so far as ever
acknowledged--don't permit him to indulge.