Chapter II
First Impressions
”He is very clever, Maggie,” said Lucy. She was kneeling on afootstool at Maggie's feet, after placing that dark lady in the largecrimson-velvet chair. ”I feel sure you will like him. I hope youwill.”
”I shall be very difficult to please,” said Maggie, smiling, andholding up one of Lucy's long curls, that the sunlight might shinethrough it. ”A gentleman who thinks he is good enough for Lucy mustexpect to be sharply criticised.”
”Indeed, he's a great deal too good for me. And sometimes, when he isaway, I almost think it can't really be that he loves me. But I cannever doubt it when he is with me, though I couldn't bear any one butyou to know that I feel in that way, Maggie.”
”Oh, then, if I disapprove of him you can give him up, since you arenot engaged,” said Maggie, with playful gravity.
”I would rather not be engaged. When people are engaged, they begin tothink of being married soon,” said Lucy, too thoroughly preoccupied tonotice Maggie's joke; ”and I should like everything to go on for along while just as it is. Sometimes I am quite frightened lest Stephenshould say that he has spoken to papa; and from something that fellfrom papa the other day, I feel sure he and Mr. Guest are expectingthat. And Stephen's sisters are very civil to me now. At first, Ithink they didn't like his paying me attention and that was natural.It _does_ seem out of keeping that I should ever live in a great placelike the Park House, such a little insignificant thing as I am.”
”But people are not expected to be large in proportion to the housesthey live in, like snails,” said Maggie, laughing. ”Pray, are Mr.Guest's sisters giantesses?”
”Oh no; and not handsome,--that is, not very,” said Lucy,half-penitent at this uncharitable remark. ”But _he_ is--at least heis generally considered very handsome.”
”Though you are unable to share that opinion?”
”Oh, I don't know,” said Lucy, blushing pink over brow and neck. ”Itis a bad plan to raise expectation you will perhaps be disappointed.But I have prepared a charming surprise for _him;_ I shall have aglorious laugh against him. I shall not tell you what it is, though.”
Lucy rose from her knees and went to a little distance, holding herpretty head on one side, as if she had been arranging Maggie for aportrait, and wished to judge of the general effect.
”Stand up a moment, Maggie.”
”What is your pleasure now?” said Maggie, smiling languidly as sherose from her chair and looked down on her slight, aerial cousin,whose figure was quite subordinate to her faultless drapery of silkand crape.
Lucy kept her contemplative attitude a moment or two in silence, andthen said,--
”I can't think what witchery it is in you, Maggie, that makes you lookbest in shabby clothes; though you really must have a new dress now.But do you know, last night I was trying to fancy you in a handsome,fashionable dress, and do what I would, that old limp merino wouldcome back as the only right thing for you. I wonder if MarieAntoinette looked all the grander when her gown was darned at theelbows. Now, if _I_ were to put anything shabby on, I should be quiteunnoticeable. I should be a mere rag.”
”Oh, quite,” said Maggie, with mock gravity. ”You would be liable tobe swept out of the room with the cobwebs and carpet-dust, and to findyourself under the grate, like Cinderella. Mayn't I sit down now?”
”Yes, now you may,” said Lucy, laughing. Then, with an air of seriousreflection, unfastening her large jet brooch, ”But you must changebrooches, Maggie; that little butterfly looks silly on you.”
”But won't that mar the charming effect of my consistent shabbiness?”said Maggie, seating herself submissively, while Lucy knelt again andunfastened the contemptible butterfly. ”I wish my mother were of youropinion, for she was fretting last night because this is my bestfrock. I've been saving my money to pay for some lessons; I shallnever get a better situation without more accomplishments.”
Maggie gave a little sigh.
”Now, don't put on that sad look again,” said Lucy, pinning the largebrooch below Maggie's fine throat. ”You're forgetting that you've leftthat dreary schoolroom behind you, and have no little girls' clothesto mend.”
”Yes,” said Maggie. ”It is with me as I used to think it would be withthe poor uneasy white bear I saw at the show. I thought he must havegot so stupid with the habit of turning backward and forward in thatnarrow space that he would keep doing it if they set him free. Onegets a bad habit of being unhappy.”
”But I shall put you under a discipline of pleasure that will make youlose that bad habit,” said Lucy, sticking the black butterfly absentlyin her own collar, while her eyes met Maggie's affectionately.
”You dear, tiny thing,” said Maggie, in one of her bursts of lovingadmiration, ”you enjoy other people's happiness so much, I believe youwould do without any of your own. I wish I were like you.”
”I've never been tried in that way,” said Lucy. ”I've always been sohappy. I don't know whether I could bear much trouble; I never had anybut poor mamma's death. You _have_ been tried, Maggie; and I'm sureyou feel for other people quite as much as I do.”
”No, Lucy,” said Maggie, shaking her head slowly, ”I don't enjoy theirhappiness as you do, else I should be more contented. I do feel forthem when they are in trouble; I don't think I could ever bear to makeany one _un_happy; and yet I often hate myself, because I get angrysometimes at the sight of happy people. I think I get worse as I getolder, more selfish. That seems very dreadful.”
”Now, Maggie!” said Lucy, in a tone of remonstrance, ”I don't believea word of that. It is all a gloomy fancy, just because you aredepressed by a dull, wearisome life.”
”Well, perhaps it is,” said Maggie, resolutely clearing away theclouds from her face with a bright smile, and throwing herselfbackward in her chair. ”Perhaps it comes from the school diet,--wateryrice-pudding spiced with Pinnock. Let us hope it will give way beforemy mother's custards and this charming Geoffrey Crayon.”
Maggie took up the ”Sketch Book,” which lay by her on the table.
”Do I look fit to be seen with this little brooch?” said Lucy, goingto survey the effect in the chimney-glass.
”Oh no, Mr. Guest will be obliged to go out of the room again if hesees you in it. Pray make haste and put another on.”
Lucy hurried out of the room, but Maggie did not take the opportunityof opening her book; she let it fall on her knees, while her eyeswandered to the window, where she could see the sunshine falling onthe rich clumps of spring flowers and on the long hedge of laurels,and beyond, the silvery breadth of the dear old Floss, that at thisdistance seemed to be sleeping in a morning holiday. The sweet freshgarden-scent came through the open window, and the birds were busyflitting and alighting, gurgling and singing. Yet Maggie's eyes beganto fill with tears. The sight of the old scenes had made the rush ofmemories so painful that even yesterday she had only been able torejoice in her mother's restored comfort and Tom's brotherlyfriendliness as we rejoice in good news of friends at a distance,rather than in the presence of a happiness which we share. Memory andimagination urged upon her a sense of privation too keen to let hertaste what was offered in the transient present. Her future, shethought, was likely to be worse than her past, for after her years ofcontented renunciation, she had slipped back into desire and longing;she found joyless days of distasteful occupation harder and harder;she found the image of the intense and varied life she yearned for,and despaired of, becoming more and more importunate. The sound of theopening door roused her, and hastily wiping away her tears, she beganto turn over the leaves of her book.
”There is one pleasure, I know, Maggie, that your deepest dismalnesswill never resist,” said Lucy, beginning to speak as soon as sheentered the room. ”That is music, and I mean you to have quite ariotous feast of it. I mean you to get up your playing again, whichused to be so much better than mine, when we were at Laceham.”
”You would have laughed to see me playing the little girls' tunes overand over to them, when I took them to practise,” said Maggie, ”justfor the sake of fingering the dear keys again. But I don't knowwhether I could play anything more difficult now than 'Begone, dullcare!'”
”I know what a wild state of joy you used to be in when the glee-mencame round,” said Lucy, taking up her embroidery; ”and we might haveall those old glees that you used to love so, if I were certain thatyou don't feel exactly as Tom does about some things.”
”I should have thought there was nothing you might be more certainof,” said Maggie, smiling.
”I ought rather to have said, one particular thing. Because if youfeel just as he does about that, we shall want our third voice. St.Ogg's is so miserably provided with musical gentlemen. There arereally only Stephen and Philip Wakem who have any knowledge of music,so as to be able to sing a part.”
Lucy had looked up from her work as she uttered the last sentence, andsaw that there was a change in Maggie's face.
”Does it hurt you to hear the name mentioned, Maggie? If it does, Iwill not speak of him again. I know Tom will not see him if he canavoid it.”
”I don't feel at all as Tom does on that subject,” said Maggie, risingand going to the window as if she wanted to see more of the landscape.”I've always liked Philip Wakem ever since I was a little girl, andsaw him at Lorton. He was so good when Tom hurt his foot.”
”Oh, I'm so glad!” said Lucy. ”Then you won't mind his comingsometimes, and we can have much more music than we could without him.I'm very fond of poor Philip, only I wish he were not so morbid abouthis deformity. I suppose it _is_ his deformity that makes him so sad,and sometimes bitter. It is certainly very piteous to see his poorlittle crooked body and pale face among great, strong people.”
”But, Lucy----” said Maggie, trying to arrest the prattling stream.
”Ah, there is the door-bell. That must be Stephen,” Lucy went on, notnoticing Maggie's faint effort to speak. ”One of the things I mostadmire in Stephen is that he makes a greater friend of Philip than anyone.”
It was too late for Maggie to speak now; the drawingroom door wasopening, and Minny was already growling in a small way at the entranceof a tall gentleman, who went up to Lucy and took her hand with ahalf-polite, half-tender glance and tone of inquiry, which seemed toindicate that he was unconscious of any other presence.
”Let me introduce you to my cousin, Miss Tulliver,” said Lucy, turningwith wicked enjoyment toward Maggie, who now approached from thefarther window. ”This is Mr. Stephen Guest.”
For one instant Stephen could not conceal his astonishment at thesight of this tall, dark-eyed nymph with her jet-black coronet ofhair; the next, Maggie felt herself, for the first time in her life,receiving the tribute of a very deep blush and a very deep bow from aperson toward whom she herself was conscious of timidity.
This new experience was very agreeable to her, so agreeable that italmost effaced her previous emotion about Philip. There was a newbrightness in her eyes, and a very becoming flush on her cheek, as sheseated herself.
”I hope you perceive what a striking likeness you drew the day beforeyesterday,” said Lucy, with a pretty laugh of triumph. She enjoyed herlover's confusion the advantage was usually on his side.
”This designing cousin of yours quite deceived me, Miss Tulliver,”said Stephen, seating himself by Lucy, and stooping to play withMinny, only looking at Maggie furtively. ”She said you had light hairand blue eyes.”
”Nay, it was you who said so,” remonstrated Lucy. ”I only refrainedfrom destroying your confidence in your own second-sight.”
”I wish I could always err in the same way,” said Stephen, ”and findreality so much more beautiful than my preconceptions.”
”Now you have proved yourself equal to the occasion,” said Maggie,”and said what it was incumbent on you to say under thecircumstances.”
She flashed a slightly defiant look at him; it was clear to her thathe had been drawing a satirical portrait of her beforehand. Lucy hadsaid he was inclined to be satirical, and Maggie had mentally suppliedthe addition, ”and rather conceited.”
”An alarming amount of devil there,” was Stephen's first thought. Thesecond, when she had bent over her work, was, ”I wish she would lookat me again.” The next was to answer,--
”I suppose all phrases of mere compliment have their turn to be true.A man is occasionally grateful when he says 'Thank you.' It's ratherhard upon him that he must use the same words with which all the worlddeclines a disagreeable invitation, don't you think so, MissTulliver?”
”No,” said Maggie, looking at him with her direct glance; ”if we usecommon words on a great occasion, they are the more striking, becausethey are felt at once to have a particular meaning, like old banners,or every-day clothes, hung up in a sacred place.”
”Then my compliment ought to be eloquent,” said Stephen, really notquite knowing what he said while Maggie looked at him, ”seeing thatthe words were so far beneath the occasion.”
”No compliment can be eloquent, except as an expression ofindifference,” said Maggie, flushing a little.
Lucy was rather alarmed; she thought Stephen and Maggie were not goingto like each other. She had always feared lest Maggie should appeartoo old and clever to please that critical gentleman. ”Why, dearMaggie,” she interposed, ”you have always pretended that you are toofond of being admired; and now, I think, you are angry because someone ventures to admire you.”
”Not at all,” said Maggie; ”I like too well to feel that I am admired,but compliments never make me feel that.”
”I will never pay you a compliment again, Miss Tulliver,” saidStephen.
”Thank you; that will be a proof of respect.”
Poor Maggie! She was so unused to society that she could take nothingas a matter of course, and had never in her life spoken from the lipsmerely, so that she must necessarily appear absurd to more experiencedladies, from the excessive feeling she was apt to throw into verytrivial incidents. But she was even conscious herself of a littleabsurdity in this instance. It was true she had a theoretic objectionto compliments, and had once said impatiently to Philip that shedidn't see why women were to be told with a simper that they werebeautiful, any more than old men were to be told that they werevenerable; still, to be so irritated by a common practice in the caseof a stranger like Mr. Stephen Guest, and to care about his havingspoken slightingly of her before he had seen her, was certainlyunreasonable, and as soon as she was silent she began to be ashamed ofherself. It did not occur to her that her irritation was due to thepleasanter emotion which preceded it, just as when we are satisfiedwith a sense of glowing warmth an innocent drop of cold water may fallupon us as a sudden smart.
Stephen was too well bred not to seem unaware that the previousconversation could have been felt embarrassing, and at once began totalk of impersonal matters, asking Lucy if she knew when the bazaarwas at length to take place, so that there might be some hope ofseeing her rain the influence of her eyes on objects more gratefulthan those worsted flowers that were growing under her fingers.
”Some day next month, I believe,” said Lucy. ”But your sisters aredoing more for it than I am; they are to have the largest stall.”
”Ah yes; but they carry on their manufactures in their ownsitting-room, where I don't intrude on them. I see you are notaddicted to the fashionable vice of fancy-work, Miss Tulliver,” saidStephen, looking at Maggie's plain hemming.
”No,” said Maggie, ”I can do nothing more difficult or more elegantthan shirt-making.”
”And your plain sewing is so beautiful, Maggie,” said Lucy, ”that Ithink I shall beg a few specimens of you to show as fancy-work. Yourexquisite sewing is quite a mystery to me, you used to dislike thatsort of work so much in old days.”
”It is a mystery easily explained, dear,” said Maggie, looking upquietly. ”Plain sewing was the only thing I could get money by, so Iwas obliged to try and do it well.”
Lucy, good and simple as she was, could not help blushing a little.She did not quite like that Stephen should know that; Maggie need nothave mentioned it. Perhaps there was some pride in the confession,--the pride of poverty that will not be ashamed of itself. But if Maggiehad been the queen of coquettes she could hardly have invented a meansof giving greater piquancy to her beauty in Stephen's eyes; I am notsure that the quiet admission of plain sewing and poverty would havedone alone, but assisted by the beauty, they made Maggie more unlikeother women even than she had seemed at first.
”But I can knit, Lucy,” Maggie went on, ”if that will be of any usefor your bazaar.”
”Oh yes, of infinite use. I shall set you to work with scarlet woolto-morrow. But your sister is the most enviable person,” continuedLucy, turning to Stephen, ”to have the talent of modelling. She isdoing a wonderful bust of Dr. Kenn entirely from memory.”
”Why, if she can remember to put the eyes very near together, and thecorners of the mouth very far apart, the likeness can hardly fail tobe striking in St. Ogg's.”
”Now that is very wicked of you,” said Lucy, looking rather hurt. ”Ididn't think you would speak disrespectfully of Dr. Kenn.”
”I say anything disrespectful of Dr. Kenn? Heaven forbid! But I am notbound to respect a libellous bust of him. I think Kenn one of thefinest fellows in the world. I don't care much about the tallcandlesticks he has put on the communion-table, and I shouldn't liketo spoil my temper by getting up to early prayers every morning. Buthe's the only man I ever knew personally who seems to me to haveanything of the real apostle in him,--a man who has eight hundreda-year and is contented with deal furniture and boiled beef because hegives away two-thirds of his income. That was a very fine thing ofhim,--taking into his house that poor lad Grattan, who shot his motherby accident. He sacrifices more time than a less busy man could spare,to save the poor fellow from getting into a morbid state of mind aboutit. He takes the lad out with him constantly, I see.”
”That is beautiful,” said Maggie, who had let her work fall, and waslistening with keen interest. ”I never knew any one who did such things.”
”And one admires that sort of action in Kenn all the more,” saidStephen, ”because his manners in general are rather cold and severe.There's nothing sugary and maudlin about him.”
”Oh, I think he's a perfect character!” said Lucy, with prettyenthusiasm.
”No; there I can't agree with you,” said Stephen, shaking his headwith sarcastic gravity.
”Now, what fault can you point out in him?”
”He's an Anglican.”
”Well, those are the right views, I think,” said Lucy, gravely.
”That settles the question in the abstract,” said Stephen, ”but notfrom a parliamentary point of view. He has set the Dissenters and theChurch people by the ears; and a rising senator like myself, of whoseservices the country is very much in need, will find it inconvenientwhen he puts up for the honor of representing St. Ogg's inParliament.”
”Do you really think of that?” said Lucy, her eyes brightening with aproud pleasure that made her neglect the argumentative interests ofAnglicanism.
”Decidedly, whenever old Mr. Leyburn's public spirit and gout inducehim to give way. My father's heart is set on it; and gifts like mine,you know”--here Stephen drew himself up, and rubbed his large whitehands over his hair with playful self-admiration--”gifts like mineinvolve great responsibilities. Don't you think so, Miss Tulliver?”
”Yes,” said Maggie, smiling, but not looking up; ”so much fluency andself-possession should not be wasted entirely on private occasions.”
”Ah, I see how much penetration you have,” said Stephen. ”You havediscovered already that I am talkative and impudent. Now superficialpeople never discern that, owing to my manner, I suppose.”
”She doesn't look at me when I talk of myself,” he thought, while hislisteners were laughing. ”I must try other subjects.”
Did Lucy intend to be present at the meeting of the Book Club nextweek? was the next question. Then followed the recommendation tochoose Southey's ”Life of Cowper,” unless she were inclined to bephilosophical, and startle the ladies of St. Ogg's by voting for oneof the Bridgewater Treatises. Of course Lucy wished to know what thesealarmingly learned books were; and as it is always pleasant to improvethe minds of ladies by talking to them at ease on subjects of whichthey know nothing, Stephen became quite brilliant in an account ofBuckland's Treatise, which he had just been reading. He was rewardedby seeing Maggie let her work fall, and gradually get so absorbed inhis wonderful geological story that she sat looking at him, leaningforward with crossed arms, and with an entire absence ofself-consciousness, as if he had been the snuffiest of old professors,and she a downy-lipped alumna. He was so fascinated by the clear,large gaze that at last he forgot to look away from it occasionallytoward Lucy; but she, sweet child, was only rejoicing that Stephen wasproving to Maggie how clever he was, and that they would certainly begood friends after all.
”I will bring you the book, shall I, Miss Tulliver?” said Stephen,when he found the stream of his recollections running rather shallow.”There are many illustrations in it that you will like to see.”
”Oh, thank you,” said Maggie, blushing with returningself-consciousness at this direct address, and taking up her workagain.
”No, no,” Lucy interposed. ”I must forbid your plunging Maggie inbooks. I shall never get her away from them; and I want her to havedelicious do-nothing days, filled with boating and chatting and ridingand driving; that is the holiday she needs.”
”Apropos!” said Stephen, looking at his watch. ”Shall we go out for arow on the river now? The tide will suit for us to the Tofton way, andwe can walk back.”
That was a delightful proposition to Maggie, for it was years sinceshe had been on the river. When she was gone to put on her bonnet,Lucy lingered to give an order to the servant, and took theopportunity of telling Stephen that Maggie had no objection to seeingPhilip, so that it was a pity she had sent that note the day beforeyesterday. But she would write another to-morrow and invite him.
”I'll call and beat him up to-morrow,” said Stephen, ”and bring himwith me in the evening, shall I? My sisters will want to call on youwhen I tell them your cousin is with you. I must leave the field clearfor them in the morning.”
”Oh yes, pray bring him,” said Lucy. ”And you _will_ like Maggie,sha'n't you?” she added, in a beseeching tone. ”Isn't she a dear,noble-looking creature?”
”Too tall,” said Stephen, smiling down upon her, ”and a little toofiery. She is not my type of woman, you know.”
Gentlemen, you are aware, are apt to impart these imprudentconfidences to ladies concerning their unfavorable opinion of sisterfair ones. That is why so many women have the advantage of knowingthat they are secretly repulsive to men who have self-denyingly madeardent love to them. And hardly anything could be more distinctivelycharacteristic of Lucy than that she both implicitly believed whatStephen said, and was determined that Maggie should not know it. Butyou, who have a higher logic than the verbal to guide you, havealready foreseen, as the direct sequence to that unfavorable opinionof Stephen's, that he walked down to the boathouse calculating, by theaid of a vivid imagination, that Maggie must give him her hand atleast twice in consequence of this pleasant boating plan, and that agentleman who wishes ladies to look at him is advantageously situatedwhen he is rowing them in a boat. What then? Had he fallen in lovewith this surprising daughter of Mrs. Tulliver at first sight?Certainly not. Such passions are never heard of in real life. Besides,he was in love already, and half-engaged to the dearest littlecreature in the world; and he was not a man to make a fool of himselfin any way. But when one is five-and-twenty, one has not chalk-stonesat one's finger-ends that the touch of a handsome girl should beentirely indifferent. It was perfectly natural and safe to admirebeauty and enjoy looking at it,--at least under such circumstances asthe present. And there was really something very interesting aboutthis girl, with her poverty and troubles; it was gratifying to see thefriendship between the two cousins. Generally, Stephen admitted, hewas not fond of women who had any peculiarity of character, but herethe peculiarity seemed really of a superior kind, and provided one isnot obliged to marry such women, why, they certainly make a variety insocial intercourse.
Maggie did not fulfil Stephen's hope by looking at him during thefirst quarter of an hour; her eyes were too full of the old banks thatshe knew so well. She felt lonely, cut off from Philip,--the onlyperson who had ever seemed to love her devotedly, as she had alwayslonged to be loved. But presently the rhythmic movement of the oarsattracted her, and she thought she should like to learn how to row.This roused her from her reverie, and she asked if she might take anoar. It appeared that she required much teaching, and she becameambitious. The exercise brought the warm blood into her cheeks, andmade her inclined to take her lesson merrily.
”I shall not be satisfied until I can manage both oars, and row youand Lucy,” she said, looking very bright as she stepped out of theboat. Maggie, we know, was apt to forget the thing she was doing, andshe had chosen an inopportune moment for her remark; her foot slipped,but happily Mr. Stephen Guest held her hand, and kept her up with afirm grasp.
”You have not hurt yourself at all, I hope?” he said, bending to lookin her face with anxiety. It was very charming to be taken care of inthat kind, graceful manner by some one taller and stronger than one'sself. Maggie had never felt just in the same way before.
When they reached home again, they found uncle and aunt Pullet seatedwith Mrs. Tulliver in the drawing-room, and Stephen hurried away,asking leave to come again in the evening.
”And pray bring with you the volume of Purcell that you took away,”said Lucy. ”I want Maggie to hear your best songs.”
Aunt Pullet, under the certainty that Maggie would be invited to goout with Lucy, probably to Park House, was much shocked at theshabbiness of her clothes, which when witnessed by the higher societyof St. Ogg's, would be a discredit to the family, that demanded astrong and prompt remedy; and the consultation as to what would bemost suitable to this end from among the superfluities of Mrs.Pullet's wardrobe was one that Lucy as well as Mrs. Tulliver enteredinto with some zeal. Maggie must really have an evening dress as soonas possible, and she was about the same height as aunt Pullet.
”But she's so much broader across the shoulders than I am, it's veryill-convenient,” said Mrs. Pullet, ”else she might wear that beautifulblack brocade o' mine without any alteration and her arms are beyondeverything,” added Mrs. Pullet, sorrowfully, as she lifted Maggie'slarge round arm, ”She'd never get my sleeves on.”
”Oh, never mind that, aunt; send us the dress,” said Lucy. ”I don'tmean Maggie to have long sleeves, and I have abundance of black lacefor trimming. Her arms will look beautiful.”
”Maggie's arms _are_ a pretty shape,” said Mrs. Tulliver. ”They'relike mine used to be, only mine was never brown; I wish she'd had_our_ family skin.”
”Nonsense, aunty!” said Lucy, patting her aunt Tulliver's shoulder,”you don't understand those things. A painter would think Maggie'scomplexion beautiful.”
”Maybe, my dear,” said Mrs. Tulliver, submissively. ”You know betterthan I do. Only when I was young a brown skin wasn't thought well onamong respectable folks.”
”No,” said uncle Pullet, who took intense interest in the ladies'conversation as he sucked his lozenges. ”Though there was a song aboutthe 'Nut-brown Maid' too; I think she was crazy,--crazy Kate,--but Ican't justly remember.”
”Oh dear, dear!” said Maggie, laughing, but impatient; ”I think thatwill be the end of _my_ brown skin, if it is always to be talked aboutso much.”