He considered this observation with a thoughtful air,—then smiled.
“No,” he averred, with an air of tolerance. “No. Strange to say, though I find most things monotonous I have not found you so!” Here he laughed quite pleasantly. “Dear child, whatever your faults, sameness is not one of them! You are as variable—as—as an English summer!”
Her eyes sparkled merrily.
“Thanks ever so much!” she said. “I should hate to be always in one humour!”
“It would be dull—undoubtedly it would be dull!” admitted the Philosopher. “Safe certainly—but dull! Unalterable good temper,—what? It might be trying! After about a year of it, one might welcome a little flash—just a leetle flash of anger!”
He paused. She said nothing. Presently he resumed.
“Yes—you are very variable! Yet—at the same time you are equable. That sounds very paradoxical, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps it does!” she admitted.
“A paradox is that which though appearing to be contradictory is nevertheless true,” he continued, amicably. “And according to that definition I myself am a paradox.”
She laughed.