By taking thought we cannot add a cubit to the height of our
happiness. We can only undermine its base by too searching an analysis
of that upon which it is built.
So Paul replied "No," and took pleasure in looking at her, as any lover
must needs have done.
"Except, of course," she said, "that one may do good with great riches."
She gave a little sigh, as if deploring the misfortune that hitherto her
own small means had fallen short of the happy point at which one may
begin doing good.
"Are you so very rich, Paul?" she repeated, as if she was rather afraid
of those riches and mistrusted them.
"Oh, I suppose so. Horribly rich!"
She had withdrawn her hand. She gave it to him again, with a pretty
movement usually understood to indicate bashfulness.
"It can't be helped," she said. "We"--she dwelt upon the word ever so
slightly--"we can perhaps do a little good with it."
Then suddenly he blurted out all his wishes on this point--his quixotic
aims, the foolish imaginings of a too chivalrous soul. She listened,
prettily eager, sweetly compassionate of the sorrows of the peasantry
whom he made the object of his simple pity. Her gray eyes contracted
with horror when he told her of the misery with which he was too
familiar. Her pretty lips quivered when he told her of little children
born only to starve because their mothers were starving.
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