"Well, I'm not sure to you; people have such a notion of what you embroider on things that they're rather afraid to commit themselves or to lead you on: they're sometimes in, you know," she luminously reminded me, "for more than they bargain for, than they quite know what to do with, or than they care to have on their hands."
I tried to do justice to this account of myself. "You mean I see so much?"
It was a delicate matter, but she risked it. "Don't you sometimes see horrors?"
I wondered. "Well, names are a convenience. People catch me in the act?"
"They certainly think you critical."
"And is criticism the vision of horrors?"
She couldn't quite be sure where I was taking her. "It isn't, perhaps, so much that you see them——"
I started. "As that I perpetrate them?"
She was sure now, however, and wouldn't have it, for she was serious. "Dear no—you don't perpetrate anything. Perhaps it would be better if you did!" she tossed off with an odd laugh. "But—always by people's idea—you like them."
I followed. "Horrors?"