giving the lie to Arthur's words of the day before, when that brother of
hers had announced that he was going to bring a wild man home to dinner
and for them not to be alarmed, because they would find him an
interesting wild man. Martin Eden could not have found it in him, just
then, to believe that her brother could be guilty of such
treachery--especially when he had been the means of getting this
particular brother out of an unpleasant row. So he sat at table,
perturbed by his own unfitness and at the same time charmed by all that
went on about him. For the first time he realized that eating was
something more than a utilitarian function. He was unaware of what he
ate. It was merely food. He was feasting his love of beauty at this
table where eating was an aesthetic function. It was an intellectual
function, too. His mind was stirred. He heard words spoken that were
meaningless to him, and other words that he had seen only in books and
that no man or woman he had known was of large enough mental caliber to
pronounce. When he heard such words dropping carelessly from the lips of
the members of this marvellous family, her family, he thrilled with
delight. The romance, and beauty, and high vigor of the books were
coming true. He was in that rare and blissful state wherein a man sees
his dreams stalk out from the crannies of fantasy and become fact.

Never had he been at such an altitude of living, and he kept himself in
the background, listening, observing, and pleasuring, replying in
reticent monosyllables, saying, "Yes, miss," and "No, miss," to her, and
"Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," to her mother. He curbed the impulse,
arising out of his sea-training, to say "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," to her
brothers. He felt that it would be inappropriate and a confession of
inferiority on his part--which would never do if he was to win to her.
Also, it was a dictate of his pride. "By God!" he cried to himself,
once; "I'm just as good as them, and if they do know lots that I don't, I