I am sure that
not a single one of them looked half as aristocratic as her son.
"I understand perfectly, Madame. But then that life is so
romantic."
"Hundreds of young men belonging to a certain sphere are doing
that," she said very distinctly, "only their case is different.
They have their positions, their families to go back to; but we are
different. We are exiles, except of course for the ideals, the
kindred spirit, the friendships of old standing we have in France.
Should my son come out unscathed he has no one but me and I have no
one but him. I have to think of his life. Mr. Mills (what a
distinguished mind that is!) has reassured me as to my son's
health. But he sleeps very badly, doesn't he?"
I murmured something affirmative in a doubtful tone and she
remarked quaintly, with a certain curtness, "It's so unnecessary,
this worry! The unfortunate position of an exile has its
advantages. At a certain height of social position (wealth has got
nothing to do with it, we have been ruined in a most righteous
cause), at a certain established height one can disregard narrow
prejudices. You see examples in the aristocracies of all the
countries. A chivalrous young American may offer his life for a
remote ideal which yet may belong to his familial tradition.
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