His worshipers can sometimes make a divinity look foolish.
Her own interview with Beaumaroy at the Cottage had left her puzzled,
distrustful--and attracted. She suspected him vaguely of wanting to use
her for some purpose of his own; in spite of the swift plausibility of
his explanation, she was nearly certain that he had lied to her about the
combination knife-and-fork. Yet his account of his own position in regard
to Mr. Saffron had sounded remarkably candid, and the more so because he
made no pretensions to an exalted attitude. It had been left to her to
define the standard of sensitive honor; his had been rather that of
safety or, at the best, that of what the world would think, or even of
what the hated cousins might attempt to prove. But there again she was
distrustful, both of him and of her own judgment. He might be--it seemed
likely--one of those men who conceal the good as well as the bad in
themselves, one of the morally shy men. Or again, perhaps, one of the
morally diffident, who shrink from arrogating to themselves high
standards because they fear for their own virtue if it be put to the
test, and cling to the power of saying, later on, "Well, I told you not
to expect too much from me!" Such various types of men exist, and they do
not fall readily into either of Cynthia's two classes; they are neither
Cransters nor Alecs; certainly not in thought, probably not in conduct.
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