However, I risked them and I was not sorry, for perhaps
after all the old woman would be willing to treat.
It seemed to be tolerably obvious that she knew my secret:
why therefore drag the matter out? But she did not take what I
had said as a confession; she only asked:
"Do you think it's right to rake up the past?"
"I don't know that I know what you mean by raking it up;
but how can we get at it unless we dig a little?
The present has such a rough way of treading it down."
"Oh, I like the past, but I don't like critics," the old woman declared
with her fine tranquility.
"Neither do I, but I like their discoveries."
"Aren't they mostly lies?"
"The lies are what they sometimes discover," I said, smiling at the quiet
impertinence of this. "They often lay bare the truth."
"The truth is God's, it isn't man's; we had better leave it alone.
Who can judge of it--who can say?"
"We are terribly in the dark, I know," I admitted; "but if we give
up trying what becomes of all the fine things? What becomes of
the work I just mentioned, that of the great philosophers and poets?
It is all vain words if there is nothing to measure it by."
"You talk as if you were a tailor," said Miss Bordereau whimsically;
and then she added quickly, in a different manner, "This house
is very fine; the proportions are magnificent. Today I wanted
to look at this place again. I made them bring me out here.
When your man came, just now, to learn if I would see you,
I was on the point of sending for you, to ask if you didn't
mean to go on.
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