“How silent we are, Miss Lyndsay!” he said at last. He might have taken it as a sign of their growing intimacy.
“And do you object to that? I like it sometimes. I like that about the well-bred English. They talk or not, as they want to. We seem to think it socially criminal to keep quiet. I like to feel free to talk or not to talk.”
“And are you not?”
“Yes,” she said, and then felt that the little monosyllable was more or less an admission, and so there was a yet longer silence. But one may be silent too long, and Rose spoke:
“What you said to Dorothy made me think of a quotation with which Aunt Anne puzzled us last night. Her quotations and my dear papa’s Marc. Aurelius we are always doubtful about.”
“What was it?”
“‘He who speaketh out the evil of his soul is at the gate of wisdom.’ She declined to explain it, and vowed it was out of a Hindostanee poem; but as to this you need never quite trust Aunt Anne. I was on the point of quoting it just now, but did not, because I fancied Dorothy might not understand it.”
“Do you?”
“No,” she laughed; “not I.”
“She would have been sure to say something droll. I wish you had quoted it. I am glad you do not understand it. I do not. It might have several meanings. But I don’t like vagueness in prose or verse. If the thought is worth stating, I think it must be worth the trouble of stating it clearly.”