“Oh, yes,” I said contemptuously; “she’s good enough.” Again Evey’s quick little glance. I didn’t quite like it.
“Evey,” I said, “you needn’t look at me that way. I know it’s wrong to say unkind things of people, but when any one is very dull and stupid, you can’t say they’re interesting and clever.”
“I don’t think you needed to say anything. I wasn’t asking you about what the Gales were,” said Evey, in her rather blunt way. “I don’t mean to be rude or laying down the law, Connie, only—”
“Mother says,” Mary interrupted in her shy way—“mother says it is always so very easy to find fault and to see the worst of people. It takes much more cleverness trying to see the best of them.”
I had begun to feel rather angry, but Mary’s words made me think a little.
“Well,” I said, “I daresay that’s true. But, I don’t like Anna Gale, I suppose, and I daresay I’ve never tried to. Do you think that’s wrong? You can’t like everybody the same.”
“No,” said Evey, “not the same. That’s just the difference. But there’s something to like in nearly everybody. And I think we should try to see that part of them most. But, of course, you don’t need to like everybody the same; that would do away with friends and friendship. One thing I do like you for, Connie, is that you’re frank and honest.”
I smiled.
“Well, then, try to think most of that part of me,” I said, repeating her own words. “No, I’d like you to see the bad parts of me too, and help me to be better.”
Evey opened wide her bright brown eyes, and for once she got a little red.