Do you ever
think about yourself?"
"I suppose I do, sometimes; nobody can help being conscious of
themselves once in a while."
"About what you are, compared with other people, I mean."
"There's nothing peculiar about me; still, I may be different, in some
ways, from other people," answered Sophie, with simplicity.
"I can judge better about that than you; there was some use in deafness,
and being alone, and thinking only of fame, and such things."
"What use?" asked Sophie, leaning forward, with interest, for he had
never spoken about his former life before.
"The same way that a man who never drinks has a more delicate sense of
taste than a drunkard," returned Bressant, apparently pleased with his
simile. "I've seen so little of women, that I can taste you more
correctly than if I had seen a great many. Understand?"
Sophie did not answer, being somewhat thrown out by this new way of
looking at the matter. There seemed to be some reason in it, too.
"If I'd associated with other people, I shouldn't have been sensitive
enough to recognize you when we met; no one except me can know you or
feel you," continued he, following out his idea.
Sophie began to feel a vague misgiving. What did this mean? What was
going to be the end of it? Ought she to allow it to go on? And yet--most
likely it meant nothing; it was only one of his queer fancies that he
was elaborating.
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