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The stare of astonishment with which Grace Fearing met George’s singular method of beginning a conversation rather disconcerted him, although he had half expected it. He had asked the question while still under the impression of Totty’s absurd advice, unable any longer to refrain from communicating his feelings to some one.
“You seem surprised,” he said. “I will explain. I do not care a straw for any of those things myself, but as we walked here my cousin was giving me a lecture about conversation in society.”
“And she advised you to talk to us about horses?” inquired Miss Grace, beginning to smile.
“No. Not to you. She gave me to understand that you were both very clever, but she gave me a list of things about which a man should talk in general society, and I flatter myself that I have remembered the catalogue pretty accurately.”
“Indeed you have!” This time Grace laughed.
“Yes. And now that we have eliminated horses, yachts, and fashions, by mutual consent, shall we talk about less important things?”
“Certainly. Where shall we begin?”
“With whatever you prefer. What do you like best in the world?”
“My sister,” answered Grace promptly.
“That answers the question, ‘Whom do you like best—?’ ”
“Very well, Mr. Wood, and whom do you like best?”
“Myself, of course. Everybody does, except people who have sisters like yours.”
“Are you an egotist, then?”
“Not by intention, but by original sin, and by the fault of fate which has omitted to give me a sister.”
“Have you no near relations?” Grace asked.
“I have my father.”
“And you are not more fond of him than of yourself?”
“Is one not bound to believe one’s father, when he speaks on mature reflection, and is a very good man besides?”
“Yes—I suppose so.”
“Very well. My father says that I love myself better than any one else. That is good evidence, for, as you say, he must be right. How do you know that you love your sister more than yourself?”
“I think I would sacrifice more for her than I would for myself.”
“Then you must be subject to a natural indolence which only affection for another can overcome.”
“I am not lazy,” objected Grace.
“Pardon me. What is a sacrifice, in the common meaning of the word? Giving up something one likes. To make a sacrifice for oneself means to give up something one likes for the sake of one’s own advantage—for instance, to give up sleeping too much, in order to work more. Not to do so, is to be lazy. Laziness is a vice. Therefore it is a vice not to sacrifice as much as possible to one’s own advantage. Virtue is the opposite of vice. Therefore selfishness is a virtue.”
“What dreadful sophistry!”
“You cannot escape the conclusion that one ought to love oneself at least quite as much as any one else, since to be unwilling to take as much trouble for one’s own advantage as one takes for that of other people is manifestly an acute form of indolence, and is therefore vicious and a cardinal sin.”
“Selfishness is certainly a deadly virtue,” retorted Grace.
“Can that be called deadly which provides a man with a living?” asked George.
“That is all sophistry—sophistical chaff, and nothing else.”
“The original sophists made a very good living,” objected George. “Is it not better to get a living as a sophist than to starve?”
“Do you make a living by it, Mr. Wood?”
“No. I am not a lawyer, and times have changed since Gorgias.”
“I may as well tell you,” said Grace, “that Mrs. Trimm has calumniated me. I am not clever, and I do not know who Gorgias was.”
“I beg your pardon for mentioning him. I only wanted to show off my culture. He is of no importance——”
“Yes he is. Since you have spoken of him, tell me who he was.”
“A sophist, and one of the first of them. He published a book to prove that Helen of Troy was an angel of virtue, he fattened on the proceeds of his talking and writing, till he was a hundred years old, and then he died. The thing will not do now. Several people have lately defended Lucretia Borgia, without fattening to any great extent. That is the reason I would like to be a lawyer. Lawyers defend living clients and are well paid for it. Look at Sherry Trimm, my cousin’s husband. Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“He is fat and well-liking. And Johnny Bond—do you know him too?”
“Of course,” answered Grace, with an almost imperceptible frown. “He is to be Mr. Trimm’s partner soon.”
“Well, when he is forty, he will be as sleek and round as Sherry Trimm himself.”
“Will he?” asked the young girl with some coldness.
“Probably, since he will be rich and happy. Moral and physical rotundity is the natural attribute of all rich and happy persons. It would be a pity if Johnny grew very fat, he is such a handsome fellow.”
“I suppose it could not be helped,” said Grace, indifferently. “What do you mean by moral rotundity, Mr. Wood?”
“Inward and spiritual grace to be always right.”
At this point Totty, who had said all she had to say to Constance, and was now only anxious to say it all over again to Grace, made a movement and nodded to her cousin.
“Come, George,” she said, “take my place, and I will take yours.”
George rose with considerable reluctance and crossed the room. There was something in Grace Fearing’s manner which gave him courage in conversation, and he had felt at his ease with her. Now, however, the ice must be broken afresh with the other sister. Unlike Mrs. Trimm, he did not want to repeat himself, and he was somewhat embarrassed as to how he should begin in a new strain. To his surprise, however, his new companion relieved him of any responsibility in this direction. While listening as much as was necessary to Totty’s rambling talk, she had been watching the young man’s face from a distance. Her sympathetic nature made her more observant than her sister, and she spent much time in speculating upon other people’s thoughts. George interested her from the first. There was something about him, of which he himself was wholly unconscious, which distinguished him from ordinary men, and which it was hard to define. Few people would have called
