"
In the film that seemed to come across his eyes, suddenly the print
appeared blurred and indistinct. But he knew that she had put into his
hand something he had written after the death of his wife; something
spontaneous and impulsive, when her loss still filled his days and
nights and almost unconsciously swayed his pen. He remembered that his
eyes had been as dim when he wrote it--and now--handed to him by this
smiling, well-to-do woman, he was as shocked at first as if he had
suddenly found her reading his private letters. This was followed by a
sudden sense of shame that he had ever thus publicly bared his feelings,
and then by the illogical but irresistible conviction that it was false
and stupid. The few phrases she had pointed out appeared as cheap and
hollow rhetoric amid the surroundings of their social tete-a-tete over
the luncheon-table. There was small danger that this heady wine of
woman's praise would make him betray himself; there was no sign of
gratified authorship in his voice as he quietly laid down the paper and
said dryly: "I am afraid I can't help you. You know it may be purely
fanciful."
"I don't think so," said Mrs. Ashwood thoughtfully. "At the same time it
doesn't strike me as a very abiding grief for that very reason. It's TOO
sympathetic. It strikes me that it might be the first grief of some one
too young to be inured to sorrow or experienced enough to accept it as
the common lot.
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