count, a former adorer of Edith's, had done,
indulge an unmasculine taste for diamond rings
(possibly because he had none); his politeness
was unobtrusive and subdued, and of his accent
there was just enough left to give an agreeable
color of individuality to his speech. But, for
all that, Edith could never quite rid herself of
the impression that he was intensely un-American.
There was a certain idyllic quiescence
about him, a child-like directness and simplicity,
and a total absence of "push," which were
startlingly at variance with the spirit of American
life. An American could never have been
content to remain in an inferior position without
trying, in some way, to better his fortunes.
But Halfdan could stand still and see, without
the faintest stirring of envy, his plebeian friend
Olson, whose education and talents could bear
no comparison with his own, rise rapidly above
him, and apparently have no desire to emulate
him. He could sit on a cricket in a corner,
with Clara on his lap, and two or three little
girls nestling about him, and tell them fairy
stories by the hour, while his kindly face
beamed with innocent happiness. And if Clara,
to coax him into continuing the entertainment,
offered to kiss him, his measure of joy was full.
This fair child, with her affectionate ways, and
her confiding prattle, wound herself ever more
closely about his homeless heart, and he clung