"Oh, naturally, very soon," he answered. "I am doing as handsome a thing as I know how by her. Sometimes it's mighty hard to do the handsome thing—even mighty hard to know what is the handsome thing itself."
"Yes," said I. But who was I that I should judge him?
"If you were just where I am," asked Harry Sheraton, slowly, "what would you do? I'd like to do what is right, you know."
"Oh no, you don't, Harry," I broke out. "You want to do what is easiest. If you wanted to do what is right, you'd never ask me nor any one else. Don't ask me, because I don't know. Suppose you were in the case of that other young man who loves her? Suppose he did not know—or suppose he did know. What would be right for him?"
"Heavy end of the log for him," admitted he, grimly. "That's true, sure as you're born."
"When one does not love a girl, and sees no happiness in the thought of living with her all his life, what squares that, Harry, in your opinion?"
"I've just asked you," he rejoined. "Why do you ask me? You say one ought to know what is right in his own case without any such asking, and I say that isn't always true. Oh, damn it all, anyway. Why are we made the way we are?"
"If only the girl in each case would be content by having the handsome thing done by her!" said I, bitterly.