Was she glad? Glad that Marion Kent was living out, perversely, this poor side of her—making a mistake? Losing, perhaps, so much?
"Marion has something better in her than that," she made herself say, when she replied. "Perhaps it will come out again, some day."
"I think she has. Perhaps it will. You have always been good and generous to her, Ray."
What did he say that for? Why did he make it impossible for her to let it go so?
"Don't!" she exclaimed. "I am not generous to her this minute! I couldn't help, when you said it, being satisfied—that you should see. I don't know whether it is mean or true in me, that I always do want people to see the truth."
She covered it up with that last sentence. The first left by itself, might have shown him more. It was certainly so; that there was a little severity in Ray Ingraham, growing out of her clear perception and her very honesty. When she could see a thing, it seemed as if everybody ought to see it; if they did not, as if she ought to show them, that they might fairly understand. A half understanding made her restless, even though the other half were less kind and comfortable.
"You show the truth of yourself, too," said Frank. "And that is grand, at any rate."
"You need not praise me," said Ray, almost coldly. "It is impossible to be quite true, I think. The nearer you try to come to it, the more you can't"—and then she stopped.
"How many changes there have been among us!" she began again, suddenly, at quite a different point, "All through the village there have been things happening, in this last year. Nobody is at all as they were a year ago. And another year"—
"Will tell another year's story," said Frank Sunderline. "Don't you like to think of that sometimes? That the story isn't done, ever? That there is always more to tell, on and on? And that means more to do. We are all making a piece of it. If we stayed right still, you see,—why, the Lord might as well shut up the book!"