Grosse nodded his head approvingly. "I thought so," he said. "It is always black that they hate. For this also there must be reason—and I must find him."
Having expressed that resolution, he approached the writing-table, and took a sheet of paper out of the case, and a circular pen-wiper of scarlet cloth out of the inkstand. After that, he looked about him; waddled back to the other end of the room; and fetched the black felt hat in which he had traveled from London. He ranged the hat, the paper, and the pen-wiper in a row. Before he could put his next question to her, she pointed to the hat with a gesture of disapproval.
"Take it away," she said. "I don't like that."
Grosse stopped me before I could speak.
"Wait a little," he whispered in my ear. "It is not quite so wonderful as you think. These blind peoples, when they first see, have all alike the same hatred of anything what is dark." He turned to Lucilla. "Say," he asked. "Is your favorite colors among these things here?"
She passed by the hat in contempt; looked at the pen-wiper, and put it down; looked at the sheet of paper, and put it down; hesitated—and again shut her eyes.
"No!" cried Grosse. "I won't have it! How dare you blind yourself, in the presence of Me? What! I give you back your sights, and you go shut your eyes. Open them—or I will put you in the corner like a naughty girls. Your favorite colors? Now, now, now!"
She opened her eyes (very unwillingly), and looked once more at the pen-wiper and the paper.
"I see nothing as bright as my favorite colors here," she said.
Grosse held up the sheet of paper, and pressed the question without mercy.