But it was
not easy to get back to the same point. There was an interval of hours
between yesterday and to-day--and there was Joe.
"I read novels to pass the time," he said, "and because they are sometimes
so like one's own life. But when they are not, they bore me."
Sybil was fond of reading, and she was especially fond of fiction, not
because she cared for sensational interests, but because she was naturally
contemplative, and it interested her to read about the human nature of the
present, rather than to learn what any individual historian thought of the
human nature of the past.
"What kind of novels do you like best?" she asked, sitting down to pass
the time with Ronald until Josephine should make her appearance.
"I like love stories best," said Ronald.
"Oh, of course," said Sybil gravely, "so do I. But what kind do you like
best? The sad ones, or those that end well?"
"I like them to end well," said Ronald, "because the best ones never do,
you know."
"Never?" There was something in Sybil's tone that made Ronald look quickly
at her.
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