RODERICK HUDSON
self in the mirrors, touching the ornaments and curiosities, glancing at the books and prints. Rowland's saloon was encumbered with valuable pieces, and she found plenty of occupation. Rowland presently joined her and pointed out some of the objects supposed to be interesting.
"It 's an odd jumble, you know," she said frankly. "Some things are very good—some are very ugly. But I like ugly things when they have a certain look. Prettiness is terribly vulgar nowadays, and it 's not every one that knows just the sort of ugliness that 's amusing. However, there are more people now that are horridly knowing than not—and the only nice thing, I think really, is to be as ignorant as a fish. We can't be though, you or I, unfortunately, can we? we 're so awfully intelligent. We 're born to know and to suffer, aren't we?" With which, suddenly, she broke off. "I like looking at people's things," she then went on, turning to Rowland and resting her lovely eyes on him. "It helps you to find out their characters."
"Am I to suppose," asked Rowland smiling, "that you 've arrived at any conclusions as to mine?"
"I 'm rather intriguée; you have too many things; one seems to contradict another. You're very artistic and yet you 're very prosaic; you have what is called a 'catholic' taste, and yet you're full of obstinate little prejudices and preferences which, if I knew you, I should find very tiresome. I don't think I like you."
"You make a great mistake," laughed Rowland. "I assure you I 'm worth liking."
"Yes, I 'm probably wrong, and if I knew you I
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