The face of the impulsive philanthropist dropped pathetically. He had come to his friend’s assistance on the spur of the moment. He was destined, as some men are, to plunge about the world seeking to do good. And it has been decreed that good must be done by stealth and after deliberation only. He who does good on the spur of the moment usually sows a seed of dissension in the trench of time.
“Also,” went on Paul, with that deliberate grasp of the situation which never failed to astonish the ready-witted Steinmetz; “also, you have other calls upon your energy. You have other work to do.”
Lanovitch’s broad face lightened up; his benevolent brow beamed. His capacity for work had brought him to the shoemaker’s last in Tomsk. It is a vice that grows with indulgence.
“It has pleased the Authorities,” went on Paul, who was shy of religious turns of phrase, “to give us all our own troubles. Mine—such as they are, Stipan—must be managed by myself. Yours can be faced by no one but you. You have come at the right moment. You do not quite realize what your coming means to Catrina.”
“Catrina! Ah!”
The weak blue eyes looked into the strong face and read nothing there.
“I doubt,” said Paul, “whether it is right for you to continue sacrificing Catrina for the sake of the little good that you are able to do. You are hampered in your good work to such an extent that the result is very small, while the pain you give is very great.”
“But is that so, Pavlo? Is my child unhappy?”
“I fear so,” replied Paul gravely, with his baffling self-restraint. “She has not much in common with her mother, you understand.”
“Ah, yes!”