"Perhaps it is not my way to look at life brightly," he added.
"It is her way," said the professor. "She believes in everything in a persistent, childish fashion that is touching to older persons like myself. If you contest her points of belief with her she is simply obstinate. You can't move her."
"Why should any one try?" said Tredennis, warmly.
"There is no need to try," responded the professor. "She will find out for herself."
"Why should she?" said Tredennis, warmer still. "I hope she won't."
The professor took off his spectacles and began to polish them carefully with a corner of his large white handkerchief.
"She is going to be a clever woman," he said. "For her sake I am sorry to see it. She is going to be the kind of clever woman who has nine chances out of ten of being a desperate pain to herself while she is a pleasure to her friends. She hasn't the nature to find safety in cleverness. She has a conscience and emotions, and they will go against her."
"Against her?" cried Tredennis.
"She will make mistakes and suffer for them—instead of letting others suffer. She won't be a saint, but she might be a martyr. It always struck me that it took faults and follies to make a martyr."
He bent forward and poked the fire as carefully as he had rubbed his spectacles; then he turned to Tredennis again—slowly this time, instead of suddenly.