“You are telling us in the most unvarnished manner that we are idiots,” said Irais.
“Idiots? No, no, by no means. But children,—nice little agreeable children. I very much like to hear you talk together. It is all so young and fresh what you think and what you believe, and not of the least consequence to any one.”
“Not of the least consequence?” cried Minora. “What we believe is of very great consequence indeed to us.”
“Are you jeering at our beliefs?” inquired Irais sternly.
“Not for worlds. I would not on any account disturb or change your pretty little beliefs. It is your chief charm that you always believe every-thing. How desperate would our case be if young ladies only believed facts, and never accepted another person’s assurance, but preferred the evidence of their own eyes! They would have no illusions, and a woman without illusions is the dreariest and most difficult thing to manage possible.”
“Thing?” protested Irais.
The Man of Wrath, usually so silent, makes up for it from time to time by holding forth at unnecessary length. He took up his stand now with his back to the fire, and a glass of Glühwein in his hand. Minora had hardly heard his voice before, so quiet had he been since she came, and sat with her pencil raised, ready to fix for ever the wisdom that should flow from his lips.
“What would become of poetry if women became so sensible that they turned a deaf ear to the poetic platitudes of love? That love does indulge in platitudes I suppose you will admit.” He looked at Irais.
“Yes, they all say exactly the same thing,” she acknowledged.
“Who could murmur pretty speeches on the beauty of a common sacrifice, if the listener’s want of imagination was such as to enable her only to distinguish one victim in the picture, and that one herself?”