It has--what is left
of it--exquisite color, and in form nature had designed it to be
perfect; but" (with a slight contemptuous shrug) "you see what it
is," and he tossed it down into the roadway.
Her face was very pale and her voice low, as she answered: "And
so you condemn it to be trampled under foot."
"I condemn it! Not at all. Its own imperfection condemns it."
"The result is all the same," she replied, with sudden change
of manner. "It is tossed contemptuously away to be trodden under
foot. Dull and ignorant as you discovered me to be, Mr. Van Berg,
I am not so stupid but that I can understand you this evening.
Imperfect as I am I could pity that unfortunate flower whose
fragrance rose to you like a low appeal for a little consideration,
at least. Would it not have bloomed as perfectly as the others if
the worm had let it alone? But, I suppose, with artist, if roses
or human lives are imperfect, that is the end of them. Misfortune
counts for nothing."
Van Berg listened in surprise to these words, and his haughty
complacency was decidedly disturbed. He was about to reply that
"Evil chosen and cherished was not a misfortune but a fault," when
she turned from him with more than her former coldness and entered
the house.
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