Barbara Allison had never been able to analyze her preference for
Miriam Burrell. Even the girl's undeniable beauty of face had often
puzzled her, for, taken each feature by itself, it was far more
striking than beautiful. There was no color in her pale skin; her red
mouth, if anything, was a trifle too wide, and her wide-set eyes were
tip-tilted in an almost Oriental slant. Her utter lack of hypocrisy,
her unsparing arraignment of fundamental motives--her own and those of
all with whom she came in contact--often resulted in calmly direct
comments which were stunningly disastrous to casual conversation. For
Miriam Burrell told the truth to others, which was unusual enough to
puzzle more than a few; she did not lie to herself, and that was an
enigma to almost all. It resulted, of course, in a reputation for
"unconventionalism."
There was scarcely a day passed but that her coldly dispassionate
dissection of this or that foible of their own set, did not startle or
sometimes distress Barbara Allison; hardly a day but that her cool
voice, which could be as tempered as edged steel, did not cut through
the veneer of some custom or other and expose the crooked grain
beneath. Barbara did not know just why she cared so deeply for Miriam
Burrell--we scarcely ever realize that such a regard can be based only
upon the deepest of deep-founded faith--but at that moment, while she
and Steve were shaking hands so soberly, she felt very little, very
much ignored; felt as though she did not share at all the understanding
in their eyes.
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