“It isn’t yours,” she retorted.
“Am I so different from other men?” he asked in a constrained voice.
“Most assuredly. I should as soon think of a whole row of encyclopedias falling in love.”
Mr. Hammerton was silent, for once repartee failed him.
Suddenly she asked, “Is your imagination a trial to you?”
“Haven’t you often told me that I am stupid as an old geometry.”
“And I hate geometry.”
“You read, you write, you live, you love through your imagination. You wrap the person you love in a rosy mist that is the breath of your hopeful heart, and you see your hero through that mist. Of course the mist fades and you have but the ugly outline—then, without stopping to see what God hath wrought, you cry out, ‘Oh, the horrible! the dreadful!’ and run away with your fingers in your ears.”
A few silent steps, then she said, “I deserve that. It is all true. Why did you not tell me before?”
“I left it to time and common sense.”