"
"Yes, I suppose so--and myself, and probably a sewing-class and
the cook's lame son. Heigh-ho-hum! What a pity it is, that it is so
uninteresting to be good."
"How do you know?"
"Don't be saucy. I do know, perfectly well, that Mae Madden, naughty,
idle, and silly, may be, after all, not so stupid; but get me good,
industrious and wise, and it will take all of my time when I'm not
asleep to keep so. No, there'll be nothing to say about me any more.
I'll be as humdrum as--"
"As I am."
"You--why Norman, are you humdrum?"
"Of course I am, dreadfully humdrum. If you and I were in a story-book,
you would have ten pages to my one, to keep the reader awake. But then,
story-books aren't the end of life. Suppose you, Mae Madden, have been
odd, full of variety, ready to twist common occurrences into something
startling and romantic, have you been happy? Haven't you been restless
and discontented? Now, can't you, grown humdrum and good, be very happy
and contented and joyful, even if the sun rises on just about the same
Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays, the year round? You will not do for
a story-book then, but won't you do better for life? And, after all,
a lively murderer is a great deal more sensational than you could ever
be.
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