“And yet we are always repenting!” Gertrude exclaimed. “That is what I mean by our being dreary. You know it perfectly well; you only pretend that you don’t.”
Felix gave a quick laugh. “The half hour is going on, and yet you are handsomer than ever. One must be careful what one says, you see.”
“To me,” said Gertrude, “you can say anything.”
Felix looked at her, as an artist might, and painted for some time in silence.
“Yes, you seem to me different from your father and sister—from most of the people you have lived with,” he observed.
“To say that one’s self,” Gertrude went on, “is like saying—by implication, at least—that one is better. I am not better; I am much worse. But they say themselves that I am different. It makes them unhappy.”
“Since you accuse me of concealing my real impressions, I may admit that I think the tendency—among you generally—is to be made unhappy too easily.”
“I wish you would tell that to my father,” said Gertrude.
“It might make him more unhappy!” Felix exclaimed, laughing.
“It certainly would. I don’t believe you have seen people like that.”