Miss Severence flushed.  “I beg your pardon,” she said.  “I did not mean to offend.”

“No,” replied Craig.  “You simply meant to amuse yourself with me.  And because I don’t know what to do with my hands and because my coat fits badly, you thought I wouldn’t realize what you were doing.  You are very narrow—­you fashionable people.  You don’t even know that everybody ought to be judged on his own ground.  To size up a race-horse, you don’t take him into a drawing room.  And it wouldn’t be quite fair, would it, for me to judge these drawing-room dolls by what they could do out among real men and women?  You—­for instance.  How would you show up, if you had to face life with no husband and no money and five small children, as my mother did?  Well, she won out.”

Miss Severence was not attracted; but she was interested.  She saw beyond the ill-fitting frock-coat, and the absurd manner, thoroughly ill at ease, trying to assume easy, nonchalant man-of-the-world airs.  “I’d never have thought of judging you except on your own ground,” said she, “if you hadn’t invited the comparison.”

“You mean, by getting myself up in these clothes and coming here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re right, young lady,” said Craig, clapping her on the arm, and waving an energetic forefinger almost in her face.  “And as soon as I can decently get away, I’ll go.  I told Arkwright I had no business to come here.”

Miss Severance colored, drew her arm away, froze.  She detested all forms of familiarity; physical familiarity she abhorred.  “You have known Grant Arkwright long?” she said, icily.

“Now, what have I done?” demanded Joshua.

She eyed him with a lady’s insolent tranquillity.  “Nothing,” replied she.  “We are all so glad Grant has come back.”

Craig bit his lip and his tawny, weather-beaten skin reddened.  He stared with angry envy at Arkwright, so evidently at ease and at home in the midst of a group on the other side of the room.  In company, practically all human beings are acutely self-conscious.  But self-consciousness is of two kinds.  Arkwright, assured that his manners were correct and engaging, that his dress was all it should be, or could be, that his position was secure and admired, had the self-consciousness of self-complacence.  Joshua’s consciousness of himself was the extreme of the other kind—­like a rat’s in a trap.

“You met Mr. Arkwright out West—­out where you live?”

“Yes,” said Craig curtly, almost surlily.

“I was out there once,” pursued the young woman, feeling that in her own house she must do her best with the unfortunate young man.  “And, curiously enough, I heard you speak.  We all admired you very much.”

Craig cheered up instantly; he was on his own ground now.  “How long ago?” he asked.

“Three years; two years last September.”

“Oh, I was a mere boy then.  You ought to hear me now.”