In
company, practically all human beings are acutely self-conscious.
But self-consciousness is of two kinds. Arkwright, assured that
his manners were correct and engaging, that his dress was all it
should be, or could be, that his position was secure and admired,
had the self-consciousness of self-complacence. Joshua's
consciousness of himself was the extreme of the other kind--like a
rat's in a trap.
"You met Mr. Arkwright out West--out where you live?"
"Yes," said Craig curtly, almost surlily.
"I was out there once," pursued the young woman, feeling that in
her own house she must do her best with the unfortunate young man.
"And, curiously enough, I heard you speak. We all admired you very
much."
Craig cheered up instantly; he was on his own ground now. "How
long ago?" he asked.
"Three years; two years last September."
"Oh, I was a mere boy then. You ought to hear me now."
And Joshua launched forth into a description of his oratory, then
related how he had won over juries in several important cases. His
arms, his hands were going, his eyes were glistening, his voice
had that rich, sympathetic tone which characterizes the egotist
when the subject is himself.
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