“I think,” she said gravely, “we always get back out of life just what we put into it.”
His mouth twisted ironically.
“That's a charming doctrine, but I'm afraid I can't subscribe to it. I put in—all my capital. And I've drawn a blank.”
His tone implied a kind of strange, numb acceptance of an inimical destiny, and Sara was conscious of a rush of intense pity towards this man whose implacably cynical outlook manifested itself in almost every word he uttered. It was no mere pose on his part—of that she felt assured—but something ingrained, grafted on to his very nature by the happenings of life.
Rather girlishly she essayed to combat it.
“You're not at the end of life yet.”
He smiled at her—a sudden, rare smile of extraordinary sweetness. Her intention was so unmistakable—so touchingly ingenious, as are all youth's attempts to heal a bitterness that lies beyond its ken.
“There are no more lucky dips left in life's tub for me, I'm afraid,” he said gently.
Sara seized upon the opening afforded.
“Of course not—if you persist in keeping to the role of looker-on,” she retorted.