No one could have described him, in those
days, though no one with perceptions could have failed to observe much
that was unusual in his personality.
"It is true," she admitted. "I do like you. You seem to carry some
quality with you which I do not understand. What is it, I wonder? It
is something which reminds me of your writing."
"I think that it is truthfulness," he told her. "That is no virtue on
my part. It is sheer necessity. I am quite sure that if I had not been
obliged I should never have told you that it was I who stared at you
from the Common there, one of a hideous little band of trippers. I
should not even have told you about my wife. It is all so humiliating."
"It was yourself which obliged yourself," she pointed out,--"I mean
that the truthfulness was part of yourself. Do you know, it has set me
thinking so often. If only people realized how attractive absolute
simplicity, absolute candor is, the world would be so much easier a
place to live in, and so much more beautiful! Life is so full of small
shams, so many imperfectly hidden little deceits. Even if you had not
told me this strange story about yourself, I think that I should still
have felt this quality about you.
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