THE BETTER SORT
"Then I understand. That represents a greater quantity than I, I think, should ever have occasion for."
"Oh, the great thing's to be sure to have enough," I growled.
But she laughed it off. "Enough, certainly, is as good as a feast!"
It was—I forget how long, some months—after this that Frank Brivet, whom I had not seen for two years, knocked again at my door. I didn't at all object to him at my other work as I did to Mrs. Cavenham, but it was not till he had been in and out several times that Alice—which is what most people still really call her—chanced to see him and received in such an extraordinary way the impression that was to be of such advantage to him. She had been obliged to leave me that day before he went—though he stayed but a few minutes later; and it was not till the next time we were alone together that I was struck with her sudden interest, which became frankly pressing. I had met her, to begin with, expansively enough.
"An American? But what sort—don't you know? There are so many."
I didn't mean it as an offence, but in the matter of men, and though her acquaintance with them is so large, I always simplify with her. "The sort. He's rich."
"And how rich?"
"Why, as an American. Disgustingly."
I told her on this occasion more about him, but it was on that fact, I remember, that, after a short silence, she brought out with a sigh: "Well, I'm sorry. I should have liked to love him for himself."
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