“Yes—I’ve not counted.” Katharine smiled, but Ralston did not see his advantage.
“I don’t say that I’ve found many new words to say it with,” he pursued. “It doesn’t always seem to need new words, and if it did—well, I’m not an author, you know. I’m not Frank Miner. I can’t go about with a dictionary in my pocket, looking up new suits of clothes for my feelings every time I want to air them. And sometimes I’ve said it to please you, just because I knew you wanted me to say it and would be disappointed if I didn’t. You see how frank I am.”
“Yes—you’re very frank!” She laughed a little, but rather hardly, as though something hurt her.
“Don’t misunderstand me, dear,” he said, quickly. “You do—I see you do. It’s just because I won’t be misunderstood that I’m talking as I am. What I’m driving at is this. It isn’t true that words never mean anything, as some people say—”
“Who says so? What nonsense!”
“Oh—people say it—books do—when the authors can’t find the words people really say when they mean things. But it’s not true. Words mean a great deal, when they do—when they just come because they must, you know, in spite of everything and everybody—when they’ve strength enough to force themselves out, instead of being dragged out, like olives out of a bottle, and presented to you on a plate. But when they’re real, they’re very real, with all of one, like pain or pleasure. Actions always mean something. That’s the point. There’s no possible mistake when a man does things that need a lot of doing, and don’t come easily. Then you know he’s in earnest, if you’ll only look at what he does. Don’t you think that’s true, Katharine?”
“Yes—oh, yes! That’s true enough. But it needn’t prevent a man from saying that he cares—”
“Of course not—but if he doesn’t happen to want to say it just at that moment—”
“But you should always want to say it. Don’t you always feel it?” She looked at him in an odd surprise.
“Feel it—yes—always,” he answered, quickly. “But I don’t always want to say just what I feel. Do you?”