“I think the really happy people,” observed Pamela, wrinkling her brows while she pursued her reflections, “are the people who feel least.”
“You mean,” he said, watching her, “the people who never love?”
“I didn’t mean that exactly... And yet, in a way, I suppose I did. I meant the people of moderate passions,—self-disciplined people whose emotions are under control, whose minds are like a well ordered establishment in which nothing is ever out of place. They don’t admit disturbing elements, and so their lives run on in an even content. There are no big joys and no big sorrows. I have known several women like that. They suggest twilight somehow,—never the sunlight, and never blank darkness. They are restful.”
“I prefer the glowing beauty of vivid contrasts myself,” he said. “A world in which there is only twilight would be a prison house.”
“And yet you can spend a good portion of your time in the mines!” she said, bringing her face round and smiling at him.
He was glad she had introduced a lighter note into their talk.
“I get my contrasts that way,” he returned. “Besides, you can’t imagine how jolly it is to drop down into the warm darkness on a broiling sunny day. Come along to the mines some time, and I’ll take you down.”
“I should be scared to death,” she declared.
Quite unexpectedly he put his strong, thin hand over hers.
“I don’t think so,” he answered. “I wouldn’t take you where there was any danger. You would be safe with me.”