“Tell me about it!” exclaimed Ruth, eagerly.
“Little girls mustn't ask questions,” he remarked, patronisingly, and in his most irritating manner. “Besides, I don't know. If the 'Widder' knows, she won't tell, so it's fair to suppose she doesn't. Your relation does queer things in the attic, and every Spring, she has an annual weep. I suppose it's the house cleaning, for the rest of the year she's dry-eyed and calm.”
“I weep very frequently,” commented Ruth.
“'Tears, idle tears—I wonder what they mean.'”
“They don't mean much, in the case of a woman.”
“I've never seen many of'em,” returned Winfield, “and I don't want to. Even stage tears go against the grain with me. I know that the lady who sobs behind the footlights is well paid for it, but all the same, it gives me the creeps.”
“It's nothing serious—really it isn't,” she explained. “It's merely a safety valve. If women couldn't cry, they'd explode.”
“I always supposed tears were signs of sorrow,” he said.
“Far from it,” laughed Ruth. “When I get very angry, I cry, and then I got angrier because I'm crying and cry harder.”
“That opens up a fearful possibility. What would happen if you kept getting angrier because you were crying and crying harder because you got angrier?”