He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. Can you imagine how dreadful it must be for them? Most of them arrive here almost penniless. He meditated, and began a new paragraph.
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