Felix gave his long, light laugh again. “Seriously, I think not. And for this reason, among others: you strike me as very capable of enjoying, if the chance were given you, and yet at the same time as incapable of wrong-doing.”
“I am sure,” said Gertrude, “that you are very wrong in telling a person that she is incapable of that. We are never nearer to evil than when we believe that.”
“You are handsomer than ever,” observed Felix, irrelevantly.
Gertrude had got used to hearing him say this. There was not so much excitement in it as at first. “What ought one to do?” she continued. “To give parties, to go to the theatre, to read novels, to keep late hours?”
“I don’t think it’s what one does or one doesn’t do that promotes enjoyment,” her companion answered. “It is the general way of looking at life.”
“They look at it as a discipline—that’s what they do here. I have often been told that.”
“Well, that’s very good. But there is another way,” added Felix, smiling: “to look at it as an opportunity.”
“An opportunity—yes,” said Gertrude. “One would get more pleasure that way.”
“I don’t attempt to say anything better for it than that it has been my own way—and that is not saying much!” Felix had laid down his palette and brushes; he was leaning back, with his arms folded, to judge the effect of his work. “And you know,” he said, “I am a very petty personage.”
“You have a great deal of talent,” said Gertrude.