She looked at him with a flash of indignation.
“Then what a good thing for us that we’ve been shaken up out of our ‘laze’!” she said.
“Perhaps—and perhaps not,” rejoined the Philosopher. “I never accept things as ‘good’ till they prove not to be entirely bad.”
“And with all these pessimistic ideas of yours, are you happy?” she asked.
“Entirely so!” And the Philosopher smiled. “Much happier than you are, my dear child! For you expect so much from everybody and everything!—and I expect—nothing! So I am never disappointed. You are!”
“Yes, I am!” she agreed, and her sweet mouth trembled. “I am very greatly disappointed!”
“And you always will be!” he said, pleasantly. Then reaching for his pipe, he filled it. “The wind seems to have abated a little—I’ll go for a walk before dinner.”
He paused an instant, wondering if he should say anything else?—a word of tenderness?—or endearment? No, he thought not! An arm round the waist was out of the question. He could whistle rather well, so prodding his pipe, he lighted it, and whistled ‘Home they brought her warrior dead,’ to which lively accompaniment he walked out of the room.
She sprang up when he had gone, indignantly conscious that tears were in her eyes.
“I think—I really do think I hate him!” she said to the silence. “And I used to be almost fond of him! Oh, he makes all life a blank for me! There seems nothing worth doing, nothing worth living for!” She paced up and down the room. “Sneer,—sneer!—nothing but sneer! And he’s supposed to be so clever! Oh, I’d rather be human!—twenty times rather! And yet—when he first came to stay with Dad he seemed so charming and kindly! I thought he would be such a splendid friend to have!—but I don’t believe he cares a rap for anybody but himself!”