“Hum,” said John.
“And Molly isn’t wooden.”
“No,” acquiesced John fervently.
Rosamund laughed.
“And therefore,” she continued, “they see downright sin in her—well, her unwooden escapades. And they haven’t a notion, the faintest notion of her possibilities.”
“As either sinner or saint,” suggested John.
“Well, there’s the stuff for either there,” she agreed.
“I own,” said John somewhat irrelevantly, “that there’s a certain attraction in sinners.”
“Of course there is,” she retorted, “if it’s brilliant enough sinning. It’s the personality that attracts, though the material has run off the rails. Only people so often make the mistake of contrasting brilliant sinning with commonplace goodness. If you want your contrasts, you should place commonplace goodness alongside commonplace sinning—pettiness, meanness, drunkenness, hateful little detractions, and all the rest of the sordid category. And then put brilliant sinning alongside the impetuous ardour of St. Peter, or the mystic sweetness of St. John.”
“You speak sagely,” quoth John. “It is, I fear, a matter of contrasts which one is extremely apt to overlook.”