“That may be, perhaps; but it is not altogether selfishness if they really do give help; it must be a God-like thing that makes them want to cure pain—a devil would gloat over it. Why should you call it selfishness because the good pleases them? ‘Le bien me plaît’ was a good enough motto for the Steadfast Prince, why not for the rest of us?”
“But is it orthodox, surely, to do what you dislike doing?”
“Yes,” struck in Roy, “like the nursery rhyme about
‘The twelve Miss Pellicoes they say were always taught
To do the thing they didn’t like, which means the thing they ought.’”
“But that seems to me exactly what is false,” said Cecil. “Surely we have to grow into liking the right and the unselfish, and hating the thing that only pleases the lower part of us?”
“But the growth is slow with most of us,” said Mr. Boniface. “There’s a specimen for you,” and he glanced toward the door, where an altercation was going on between Master Lance and the nurse who had come to fetch him to bed.
“Oh, come, Lance, don’t make such a noise,” cried Cecil, crossing the room and putting a stop to the sort of war-dance of rage and passion which the little fellow was executing. “Why, what do you think would happen to you if you were to sit up late?”
“What?” asked Lance, curiosity gaining the upper hand and checking the frenzy of impatience which had possessed him.
“You would be a wretched little cross white child, and would never grow up into a strong man. Don’t you want to grow big and strong so that you can take care of Gwen?”