“But it does cease! Each year its proportion is a little less.”
I walked in silence, and my companion talked by my side.
“We go on. Here is a good thing done, and there is a good thing done. The Good Will in man——”
“Not fast enough. It goes so slowly—and in a little while we too must die——”
“It can be done,” said my companion.
“It could be avoided,” said I.
“It shall be in the days to come. There is food enough for all, shelter for all, wealth enough for all. Men need only know it and will it. And yet we have this!”
“And so much like this!” said I….
So we talked and were tormented.
And I remember how later we found ourselves on Westminster Bridge, looking back upon the long sweep of wrinkled black water that reflected lights and palaces and the flitting glow of steamboats, and by that time we had talked ourselves past our despair. We perceived that what was splendid remained splendid, that what was mysterious remained insoluble for all our pain and impatience. But it was clear to us the thing for us two to go upon was not the good of the present nor the evil, but the effort and the dream of the finer order, the fuller life, the banishment of suffering, to come.