My name has grown hard to them, my hat is the subject
of their superstitions, my ambition and success have lost me their
sympathy without giving me any other social compensation. You behold a
desperate man, a merciless creditor, a tussock of ore from the bogs of
Nassawongo, yet one whose only crimes have been to adore you, and to
wear his forefathers' hat."
"Is this pride, then, wholly insulted sensibility, Mr. Milburn?"
"I cannot say, Miss Custis. You may smile, but I think it is
aristocracy."
"I think so, too," exclaimed Vesta reflectively; "you are a proud man.
My father, who has had reason to be proud, is less an aristocrat, sir,
than you."
Milburn's flush came and stayed a considerable while. He was not
displeased at Vesta's compliment, though it bore the nature of an
accusation.
"You are aristocratic," explained Vesta, "because you adopted the
obsolete hat of your people. Whatever vanity led you to do it, it was
the satisfaction of some origin, I think."
She checked herself, seeing that she was entering into his affairs with
too much freedom.
"I suppose that somewhere, some time," spoke the strange visitor, "some
person of my race has been influential and prosperous. Indeed, I have
been told so. He was elevated to both the magistracy and the scaffold,
but my hat had even an older origin."
"Tell me about that ancestor," said Vesta, the heartache from his
greater errand instigating her to defer it, while she was yet barely
conscious that the man was original, if not interesting.
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