The sense of my own apparent superfluity in life prompted me to say:
"Oh, it isn't only women who discover that."
Her glance traveled down the steep wooded bank and over the river, to rest on the wine-colored hills on the other side.
"Did you—did you ever?"—she corrected herself quickly—"I mean—do men?"
"Some men do. It's—it's possible."
"Isn't it," she asked, tackling the subject in her sensible way, "primarily a question of money? If you have enough of it not to have to earn a living—and no particular duties—don't you find yourself edged out of the current of life? After all, what the world wants is producers; and the minute one doesn't produce—"
"What do you mean by producers?"
She reflected. "I suppose I mean all who contribute, either directly or indirectly, either mentally or physically, to the sum total of our needs in living. Wouldn't that cover it?"
I admitted that it might.
"And those who don't do that, who merely live on what others produce, seem to be excluded from the privilege of helpfulness."