“Why, yes—some appreciate us, and others take things as a matter of fact. They——”
“Oh, no,” she interrupted. “You’re wrong—I’ll tell you how they feel. In their heart of hearts they hate the very ones who are continually giving up everything for them.”
“Hate?—But why?——”
“Because,” she continued gravely, “people who are willing to accept day after day the life’s happiness of another—cannot be anything but selfish, narrow-minded and little souled, and it is that very littleness that fills their hearts with envy for the big and generous. As envy is never the stepping stone to love, it must lead to its opposite, and that is—hatred. Now do you understand?” Geraldine DeLacy leaned back in her chair and waited for the verdict on the strange cause she had pleaded. It came unhesitatingly.
“I understand,” admired Hugh Benton, “that you are a most remarkable and logical little woman. But,” and the lines of thought deepened between his brows, “would you advise a man to grasp his happiness should he see it before him, regardless of anything or anyone else?”
“Yes,” she replied slowly, “I should advise just that.”
Hugh Benton got to his feet and went over to his hostess. Eagerly he grasped both her hands as he bent over her, and his voice was choked with emotion as he said:
“Then I should grasp—you.”
“Me?” The woman sprang to her feet, her feigned astonishment complete.
“You mean happiness to me. Can’t you see that I love you!”