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Updated: May 29, 2025
My Supervisor was lovely, an Irishwoman with the most florid hats, and the kindest, most just disposition, and always laughing. We all adored her, she was so fair-minded." "You think a good deal about laughing," said Allan thoughtfully. "Does it rank as a virtue in libraries, or what?" "You have to laugh," explained Phyllis. "If you don't see the laugh-side of things, you see the cry-side.
And you can't afford to be unhappy if you have to earn your living. People like brightness best. And it's more comfortable for yourself, once you get used to it." "So that was your philosophy of life," said Allan. His hand tightened compassionately on hers. "You poor little girl!... Tell me about the cry-side, Phyllis."
His voice was very moved and caressing, and the darkness was deepening as the fire sank. Only an occasional tongue of flame glinted across Phyllis's silver slipper-buckle and on the seal-ring Allan wore. It was easy to tell things there in the perfumed duskiness. It was a great many years since any one had cared to hear the cry-side.
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