The selfishness, the egotism of men it was that staggered,
overwhelmed Robina, when she came to think of it.
Robina paused. Not for want of material, I judged, so much as want
of breath. Veronica performed a useful service by seizing the moment
to express a hope that it was not early-closing day. Robina felt a
conviction that it was: it would be just like Dick to stand there
dawdling in a corner till it was too late to do anything.
"I have been trying to get out of this corner for the last five
minutes," explained Dick, with that angelic smile of his that I
confess is irritating. "If you have done talking, and will give me
an opening, I will go."
Robina told him that she had done talking. She gave him her reasons
for having done talking. If talking to him would be of any use she
would often have felt it her duty to talk to him, not only with
regard to his stupidity and selfishness and general aggravatingness,
but with reference to his character as a whole. Her excuse for not
talking to him was the crushing conviction of the hopelessness of
ever effecting any improvement in him. Were it otherwise -
"Seriously speaking," said Dick, now escaped from his corner,
"something, I take it, has gone wrong with the stove, and you want a
sort of general smith."
He opened the kitchen door and looked in.
"Great Scott!" he said. "What was it--an earthquake?"
I looked in over his shoulder.
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