THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
"You oughtn't to make me say too much. But I'm glad I don't."
"Don't say too much?"
"Don't care for Lord Mark."
"Oh!" Densher answered with a sound like his lordship's own. To which he added: "You abso lutely hold that that poor girl doesn't?"
"Ah, you know what I hold about that poor girl!" It had made her again impatient.
Yet he stuck a minute to the subject. "You scarcely call him, I suppose, one of the dukes."
"Mercy, no—far from it. He's not, compared with other possibilities, 'in' it. Milly, it's true," she said, to be exact, "has no natural sense of social values, doesn't in the least understand our differences or know who's who or what's what."
"I see. That," Densher laughed, "is her reason for liking me."
"Precisely. She doesn't resemble me," said Kate, "who at least know what I lose."
Well, it had all risen for Densher to a considerable interest. "And Aunt Maud—why shouldn't she know? I mean that your friend there isn't really anything. Does she suppose him of ducal value?"
"Scarcely; save in the sense of being uncle to a duke. That's undeniably something. He's the best moreover we can get."
"Oh, oh!" said Densher; and his doubt was not all derisive.
"It isn't Lord Mark's grandeur," she went on
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