"Yes. Sewn on that button yet?"
"I've been afraid to take the coat from under the pillow."
"Funny, about that coat. You told him there wasn't anything in the pockets?"
"Yes."
"How did he take it?"
"He did not seem to care."
"There you are, just as I said. We've got to get him to care. We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. That's the job. He's young and sound. Of course, there'll be a few kinks to straighten out. He's passed through some rough mental torture. But one of these days everything will click back into place. Great sport, eh? To haul them back from the ragged edge. Wouldn't it be fun to see his name on a book-cover some day? He'll go strutting up and down without ever dreaming he owed the whole shot to us. That would be fun, eh?"
"I wonder if you know how kind you are? You are like somebody out of a book."
"There, now! You mustn't get mixed. You mustn't go by what you read so much as by what you see and hear. You must remember, you've just begun to read; you haven't any comparisons. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley."
"I know what is good," she replied.