"One has to, don't you think, when it's so important—and so easy to do wrong?"
She grew mildly argumentative.
"I don't see anything so terrible about wrong, when other people do it and are none the worse."
"May not that be because you've never tried it on your own account? It depends a little on the grain of which one's made. The finer the grain, the more harm wrong can do to it—just as a fragile bit of Venetian glass is more easily broken than an earthenware jug, and an infinitely greater loss."
But the simile was wasted. From long contemplation of her hands she looked up to say in a curiously coaxing tone:
"You live at the Hotel Mary Chilton, don't you?"
I caught her suggestion in a flash, and decided that I could let it go no further.
"Yes, but you couldn't come there—unless it was only to see me."
"But what shall I do?"
It was a kind of cry. She twisted her ringed fingers, while her eyes implored me to help her.