“I? Oh, no! What is it?”
“I sometimes think, dear, that the endless trivialities into which you and Archibald lead those boys are not, dear, a good thing. I have spoken to Archibald about it, and he quite agrees with me. I sometimes think Archibald agrees with me too easily. I would rather he argued the matter; but he is so apt to say, ‘Certainly, Margaret!’ and then to go and smoke. I do wish you would consider it seriously. And you are so capable of wiser and more instructive talk. You won’t mind what I say, dear?”
“My dear Margaret,” replied Anne, with some irritation, “shall we converse about the Council of Trent? Also the enigmas of Cædmon are instructive; the manners and customs of the Angles are stated there in a manner to combine interest with amusement, instruction with perplexity.”
“Why do you answer me in that way? You always do. Anne, you are too bad! You know well enough what I mean.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, a little wearily. “I think you are hardly just. You see only one side of things. At all events, the whole logic of the situation is this: When you have a headache, you go to bed and dose yourself, and put stuff on your temples; when I am in pain from head to foot,—I was at breakfast,—I go merry mad and say things. You will have to stand it, unless I go away.”
“Oh, Anne! How can you hurt me so? Go away?”
“I spoke hastily: I don’t mean that. But sometimes, Margaret, you so completely fail to comprehend me that I feel I had better be away. You can never change me.”
“But you—you could change yourself.”
“Could I, indeed? And trust me, Margaret, I shall go on as gay, as inconsequent, as merry; but if I can teach, if anything in my life teaches these boys to laugh when they might cry, I shall not have lived in vain. I am sure we are all grave enough at times. When I go wild, and say absurd things, pity me. A jest is my smelling-salts; a joke is my medicine. Believe me—oh, it is true: the custom of laughter is good.”
“But this constant amusement at everything—yes, everything!”