It's the one thing that we ought to be most anxious
to discuss, and examine frankly in all its bearings--in
order to see if we can't better it--but that's precisely
the thing that doesn't get talked about between us.
You would never have told me that you were unhappy----"
"You use the word again," she reminded him, a wan smile
softening her protest.
Thorpe stood up, and took a slow step toward the chair.
He held her glance with his own, as he stood then,
his head bent, gravely regarding her.
"Do you tell me that you are happy?" he asked,
with sober directness.
She fluttered her hands in a little restrained gesture
of comment. "You consider only the extremes," she told him.
"Between black and white there are so many colours and shades
and half-tones! The whole spectrum, in fact. Hardly anybody,
I should think, gets over the edge into the true black
or the true white. There are always tints, modifications.
People are always inside the colour-scheme, so to speak.
The worst that can be said of me is that I may be in the
blues--in the light-blues--but it is fair to remember
that they photograph white."
Though there was an impulse within him to resent this
as trifling, he resisted it, and judicially considered
her allegory. "That is to say"--he began hesitatingly.
"To the observer I am happy.
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