That, too, is susceptible of interpretation.

I think you must have heard the couplet: "'No coal, no fire so hotly glows As the secret love that no one knows.'" Mildred Caswell had risen, an indignant flush on her face.
Constance put her hand on her arm gently to restrain her, knowing that such indignation was the first sign that she had struck at the core of truth in her interpretation.
"My dear," she urged, "I'm only telling you the truth, for your own sake, and not to take advantage of you as Madame Cassandra is doing.
Please--remember that the best evidence of your normal condition is just what I find, that absence of love would be abnormal.

My dear, you are what the psychologists call a consciously frigid, unconsciously passionate woman.

Consciously you reject this Davies; unconsciously you accept him.

And it is the more dangerous, although you do not know it, because some one else is watching.