It is
a truism to say that in our social code the value
of a man's character is determined by his position;
and fine traits in a foreigner (unless he
should happen to be something very great)
strike us rather as part of a supposed mental
alienism, and as such, naturally suspicious. It
is rather disgraceful than otherwise to have your
music teacher in love with you, and critical
friends will never quite banish the suspicion
that you have encouraged him.
Edith had, in her first delight at the discovery
of Halfdan's talent, frankly admitted him
to a relation of apparent equality. He was a
man of culture, had the manners and bearing of
a gentleman, and had none of those theatrical
airs which so often raise a sort of invisible wall
between foreigners and Americans. Her mother,
who loved to play the patron, especially to young
men, had invited him to dinner-parties and introduced
him to their friends, until almost every one
looked upon him as a protege of the family. He
appeared so well in a parlor, and had really such
a distinguished presence, that it was a pleasure
to look at him. He was remarkably free from
those obnoxious traits which generalizing American
travelers have led us to believe were inseparable
from foreign birth; his finger-nails were
in no way conspicuous; he did not, as a French
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.
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