"Is anything the matter to-night? Or are you only tired?"
He was tired. But though she herself had suggested it, she was not satisfied with his answer.
"Something has bothered you. Has your work gone badly?"
No, it was nothing of that sort. But Madeleine persisted: could she be of any help to him?
"The merest trifle—not worth talking about."
The twilight had grown thick around them; the furniture of the room lost its form, and stood about in shapeless masses. Through the open window was heard the whistle of a distant train; a large fly that had been disturbed buzzed distractingly, undecided where to re-settle for the night. It was sultry again, after the rain.
"Look here, Maurice," Madeleine said, when she had observed him for some time in silence. "I don't want to be officious, but there's something I should like to say to you. It's this. You are far too soft-hearted. If you want to get on in life, you must think more about yourself than you do. The battle is to the strong, you know, and the strong, within limits, are certainly the selfish. Let other people look after themselves; try not to mind how foolish they are—you can't improve them. It's harder, I daresay, than it is to be a person of unlimited sympathies; it's harder to pass the maimed and crippled by, than to stop and weep over them, and feel their sufferings through yourself. But YOU have really something in you to occupy yourself with. You're not one of those people—I won't mention names!—whose own emptiness forces them to take an intense interest in the doings of others, and who, the moment they are alone with their thoughts, are bored to desperation, just as there are people who have no talent for making a home home-like, and are only happy when they are out of it."
Here she laughed at her own seriousness.
"But you are smiling inwardly, and thinking: the real old school-marm!"
"You don't practise what you preach, Madeleine. Besides, you're mistaken. At heart, I'm a veritable egoist."