Sybil was fond of reading, and she was especially fond of fiction, not because she cared for sensational interests, but because she was naturally contemplative, and it interested her to read about the human nature of the present, rather than to learn what any individual historian thought of the human nature of the past.
“What kind of novels do you like best?” she asked, sitting down to pass the time with Ronald until Josephine should make her appearance.
“I like love stories best,” said Ronald.
“Oh, of course,” said Sybil gravely, “so do I. But what kind do you like best? The sad ones, or those that end well?”
“I like them to end well,” said Ronald, “because the best ones never do, you know.”
“Never?” There was something in Sybil’s tone that made Ronald look quickly at her. She said the word as though she, too, had something to regret.
“Not in my experience,” answered Surbiton, with the decision of a man past loving or being loved.
“How dreadfully gloomy! One would think you had done with life, Mr. Surbiton,” said Sybil, laughing.
“Sometimes I think so, Miss Brandon,” answered Ronald in solemn tones.
“I suppose we all think it would be nice to die, sometimes. But then the next morning things look so much brighter.”