could learn 'm a few myself, all the same!" And the next moment, when
she or her mother addressed him as "Mr. Eden," his aggressive pride was
forgotten, and he was glowing and warm with delight. He was a civilized
man, that was what he was, shoulder to shoulder, at dinner, with people
he had read about in books. He was in the books himself, adventuring
through the printed pages of bound volumes.

But while he belied Arthur's description, and appeared a gentle lamb
rather than a wild man, he was racking his brains for a course of action.
He was no gentle lamb, and the part of second fiddle would never do for
the high-pitched dominance of his nature. He talked only when he had to,
and then his speech was like his walk to the table, filled with jerks and
halts as he groped in his polyglot vocabulary for words, debating over
words he knew were fit but which he feared he could not pronounce,
rejecting other words he knew would not be understood or would be raw and
harsh. But all the time he was oppressed by the consciousness that this
carefulness of diction was making a booby of him, preventing him from
expressing what he had in him. Also, his love of freedom chafed against
the restriction in much the same way his neck chafed against the starched
fetter of a collar. Besides, he was confident that he could not keep it
up. He was by nature powerful of thought and sensibility, and the
creative spirit was restive and urgent. He was swiftly mastered by the
concept or sensation in him that struggled in birth-throes to receive
expression and form, and then he forgot himself and where he was, and the
old words--the tools of speech he knew--slipped out.

Once, he declined something from the servant who interrupted and pestered
at his shoulder, and he said, shortly and emphatically, "Pew!"

On the instant those at the table were keyed up and expectant, the