"I had hoped you understood me better than that. Is that why you
have left me to myself? Do you doubt my sincerity? Why do you speak
so cruelly, saying I am too good, when your real thoughts must be so
different? You mean that I am incapable of really doing anything;
you have no faith in me. I seem to you too weak to pursue any high
end. You would not even speak to me of your book, because you felt I
should not appreciate it. And yet you do know me--"
"Yes; I know you well," Waymark said.
Ida looked steadily at him. "If you are speaking to me for the last
time, won't you be sincere, and tell me of my faults? Do you think I
could not bear it? You can say nothing to me--nothing from your
heart--that I won't accept in all humility. Are we no longer even
friends?"
"You mistake me altogether."
"And you are still my friend?" she uttered warmly. "But why do you
think me unfit for good work?"
"I had no such thought. You know how my ideals oppose each other. I
spoke on the impulse of the moment; I often find it so hard to
reconcile myself to anything in life that is not, still and calm and
beautiful. I am just now bent on forgetting all the things about
which you are so earnest.
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