small glimpse of that world.  He was moved deeply by appreciation of it, and his heart was melting with sympathetic tenderness.  He had starved for love all his life.  His nature craved love.  It was an organic demand of his being.  Yet he had gone without, and hardened himself in the process.  He had not known that he needed love.  Nor did he know it now.  He merely saw it in operation, and thrilled to it, and thought it fine, and high, and splendid.

He was glad that Mr. Morse was not there.  It was difficult enough getting acquainted with her, and her mother, and her brother, Norman.  Arthur he already knew somewhat.  The father would have been too much for him, he felt sure.  It seemed to him that he had never worked so hard in his life.  The severest toil was child’s play compared with this.  Tiny nodules of moisture stood out on his forehead, and his shirt was wet with sweat from the exertion of doing so many unaccustomed things at once.  He had to eat as he had never eaten before, to handle strange tools, to glance surreptitiously about and learn how to accomplish each new thing, to receive the flood of impressions that was pouring in upon him and being mentally annotated and classified; to be conscious of a yearning for her that perturbed him in the form of a dull, aching restlessness; to feel the prod of desire to win to the walk in life whereon she trod, and to have his mind ever and again straying off in speculation and vague plans of how to reach to her.  Also, when his secret glance went across to Norman opposite him, or to any one else, to ascertain just what knife or fork was to be used in any particular occasion, that person’s features were seized upon by his mind, which automatically strove to appraise them and to divine what they were—­all in relation to her.  Then he had to talk, to hear what was said to him and what was said back and forth, and to answer, when it was necessary, with a tongue prone to looseness of speech that required a constant curb.  And to add confusion to confusion, there was the servant, an unceasing menace, that appeared noiselessly at his shoulder, a dire Sphinx that propounded puzzles and conundrums demanding instantaneous solution.  He was oppressed throughout the meal by the thought of finger-bowls.  Irrelevantly, insistently, scores of times, he wondered when they would come on and what they looked like.  He had heard of such things, and now, sooner or later, somewhere in the next few minutes, he would see them, sit at table with exalted beings who used them—­ay, and he would use them himself.  And most important of all, far down and yet always at the surface of his thought, was the problem of how he should comport himself toward these persons.  What should his attitude be?  He wrestled continually and anxiously with the problem.  There were cowardly suggestions that he should make believe, assume a part; and there were still more cowardly suggestions that warned him he would fail in such course, that his nature was not fitted to live up to it, and that he would make a fool of himself.