Robin looked at the blue-grey linen on the walls, at the pale blue wing in her hat, then at her white face.
“Viola,” he said, leaning forward, “it’s bad to waste anything in this life, but the worst thing of all is to waste unhappiness. If I could teach you to be niggardly of your tears!”
“What do you mean?”
She spoke with sudden sharpness.
“I never cry. Nothing’s worth a tear,” she added.
“Yes, some things are. But not what you are going to weep for.”
Her face had changed. The gaiety had gone out of it, and it looked hesitating.
“You think I am going to shed tears?” she said. “Why?”
“I am glad you let me tell you. For the loss of nothing—a coin that never came out of the mint, that won’t pass current anywhere.”
“I’ve lost nothing,” she exclaimed, “nothing. You’re talking nonsense.”