"
The figure of the girl seated in the big armchair did not stir. Her lips
pouted contemptuously, a frown wrinkled her forehead.
"Martin says that a thing is only impossible when we think it so."
"Faith and the mountain, I'm afraid."
Thyme's foot shot forth; it nearly came into contact with Miranda, the
little bulldog.
"Oh, duckie!"
But the little moonlight bulldog backed away.
"I hate these slums, uncle; they're so disgusting!"
Hilary leaned his face on his thin hand; it was his characteristic
attitude.
"They are hateful, disgusting, and heartrending. That does not make the
problem any the less difficult, does it?"
"I believe we simply make the difficulties ourselves by seeing them."
Hilary smiled. "Does Martin say that too?"
"Of course he does."
"Speaking broadly," murmured Hilary, "I see only one difficulty--human
nature."
Thyme rose. "I think it horrible to have a low opinion of human nature."
"My dear," said Hilary, "don't you think perhaps that people who have
what is called a low opinion of human nature are really more tolerant of
it, more in love with it, in fact, than those who, looking to what human
nature might be, are bound to hate what human nature is."
The look which Thyme directed at her uncle's amiable, attractive face,
with its pointed beard, high forehead, and special little smile, seemed
to alarm Hilary.
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