“I should have tried to help my children—to influence them,” she went on, with increasing agitation. “I’ve stood aside—”
“But don’t you see?” he cried. “That’s what’s so wonderful! That’s the fine thing about you—you’ve let them alone. Even if you haven’t accomplished much yourself, you’ve given other people a chance.”
He was distressed to see tears in her eyes.
“My children aren’t happy,” she said.
“They’re living,” he said. “They’re growing. They’re learning their own lessons in their own way. If you’d done what you call influence them, it would only mean that they saw things through your eyes.”
“I’ve accomplished nothing. I’ve only passed through life like—”
His glance fell on the Delft bowl.
“Like a flower,” he said, thoughtfully. “You’ve just existed, in a very sweet, gentle way. I think that’s a mighty fine thing.... I don’t believe there are many people who have done so little harm.”
He got up; he took her outstretched hand, and went off, without the sage advice he had come for, but consoled for lack of it by a variety of new ideas. And he left Claudine strangely assuaged.