“It is a joy to help them.”
“And that leads to pauperising,” Wilbraham insisted. “Even the best of you do a lot of harm. There’s that young priest out in the San Lorenzo quarter. His work in one sense is magnificent. I admire his self-devotion tremendously, but I also think he has got hold of the wrong end of the stick, and is regenerating a few at the cost of encouraging a seething hot-bed of beggars.”
“It’s easy to criticise,” Teresa said. “That I own. As easy as to see other people’s faults. We’ve plenty of our own; only at this moment we were discussing why Italy is not prosperous in spite of an excellent king and queen.”
“And your cure would be to let them starve!” cried Teresa unjustly. “Do you ever think of the women and children?”
“Yes; I think of them a good deal,” he returned, looking quietly at her.
“Yet can suggest nothing?”
“Except as a spectator. Is that of any practical use?”
She turned impatiently away, but the next moment was back and holding out her hand.
“I’m afraid I was very rude,” she said, her grey eyes looking frankly into his. “I’m all in a puzzle myself, and expect other people to pull me out of it—in the way I think best, of course,” she added with a laugh.
As his hand closed round hers, Wilbraham was conscious of a strange unsteadiness in his grasp. He turned pale, hardly knowing what to answer.