"I don't believe I was ever young—I seem to have known about the sadness of life from my cradle. That was why I wanted so passionately some of its gaiety. I remember I used to think that Paris meant gaiety, but when we went there I couldn't get over my surprise because of all the ragged people and the poor, miserable horses. They spoiled it to me."
"The secret is not to look, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yes. Jonathan never looked. It all depends, he used to tell me—upon which set of facts I chose to regard—and he calls it philosophical not to regard any but pleasant ones."
"Perhaps he's right, but isn't it, after all, a question of the way he's made?"
"Everything is; grandfather used to say that was why he was never able to judge people. Life was woven of many colours, like Joseph's coat, he once told me, and we could make dyes run, but we couldn't wash them entirely out. He couldn't make himself resentful when he tried—not even with—with Mr. Jonathan."
"Have you ever forgiven him, Molly?"
"I've sometimes thought that he was sorry at the end—but how could that undo the way he treated my mother? Being sorry when you're dying doesn't help things you've hurt in life—but, then, grandfather would have said, I suppose, that it was life, not Mr. Jonathan, that was to blame. And I can see, too, in a way, that we sometimes do things we don't want to do—that we don't even mean to do—that we regret ever afterwards—just because life drives us to do them—" For a minute she hesitated, and then added bravely, "I learned that by taking Mr. Jonathan's money."
"But you were right," he answered.
"To have the choice between love and money, and to choose—money?"
"You're putting it harshly. It wasn't money you chose—it was the world or Old Church—Jordan's Journey or the grist mill."