"Dear Uncle Jim," I said; "how delightful, and how like him!"
"But it's true you are beautiful; only the part about the people not seeing it isn't true: that's father's way of putting it. You are beautiful!"
"My dear child!"
"Why do you say 'dear child' to me? People would think you were years and years older than I am. Why do you always talk as if life were over? Have you a secret sorrow?"
If Pauline, warm-hearted, loving Pauline had really thought I had, she would have been the last person to ask such a question.
"Do I look it?" I asked.
"No-o. Only when people seem to spend the whole of their life in doing things for other people, it makes one suspect that they are saying to themselves, 'As we can't be happy ourselves, we can see that other people are.'"
"What a philosopher you are, Pauline! If you go on that supposition, you must have a terrible sorrow somewhere hidden behind that happy face of yours."
Pauline is not meant to live in London. She thanks people in a crowd for letting her pass. If she is pushed off the pavement, she is only sorry that the person can be so rude as to do it. She never gets into a 'bus or takes any vehicular advantage over a widow, and she feels choky if she sees any one very old. "Do you know why?" she asked. "Because they are, so near Heaven, and sometimes I think you see the reflection of it in their faces."
"Like Cousin Penelope," I said.