"Why should they? They don't know what 's beating inside of us away down here." The boy struck his breast fiercely. "I don't believe they do know half the time what is best, and I don't believe that God intends them to know."
"I would n't talk about it, if I were you. I must go in. Won't you come in with me?"
"Not to-night," he replied. "I must be off."
"But papa might give you some advice."
"I 've had too much of it now. What I want is room to breathe in once."
"I don't understand you."
"I know you don't; nobody does, or tries to. Go in, Lizzie," he said more calmly. "I don't want you to catch cold, even if I do. Good-night." And he turned away.
The girl stood for a moment looking after him; her eye was moist. Then she pouted, "Fred 's real cross to-night," and went in.
It is one of the glaring sarcasms of life to see with what complacency a shallow woman skims the surface of tragedy and thinks that she has sounded the depths.