"No?" Then he said with a playful sadness: "A moment ago you were not
completely innocent of irony, were you?"
"But a man is big and broad, and should not--he should be magnanimous,
leaving it to woman, whose life is spent among little things, to be
guilty of littlenesses. But see how daring I am--speaking like this to
you who know so much more than I do. . . . Surely, you are still only
humorous, when you speak of irony turned upon yourself--the irony so icy
to your friends?"
She had developed greatly. Her mind had been sharpened by pain. The edge
of her wit had become poignant, her speech rendered logical and allusive.
Roscoe was wise enough to understand that the change in her had been
achieved by the change in himself; that since Mrs. Falchion came, Ruth
had awakened sharply to a distress not exactly definable. She felt that
though he had never spoken of love to her, she had a right to share his
troubles. The infrequency of his visits to her of late, and something in
his manner, made her uneasy and a little bitter. For there was an
understanding between them, though it had been unspoken and unwritten.
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