"I have done little," she said softly. "And I am—little. I saw my road, long ago. I see it more clearly every day. But I'm not big enough to follow it—very far. I'm too timid. To go on that road, where I know I should go—where I know better and better as the years come—I should have had to leave everything behind. I wasn't equal to that. Those little things—they didn't mean much—they don't now ... but I can't shake them off—quite. I can't follow the road and take them too. And I can't rest with them and forget the road. So I've—tried to do both. I can't, of course—but I try. I try very hard. It makes me enemies. It makes me unhappy. Even my children—I've stayed partly for them—the road led to such a wild and desolate country—even they don't understand. Perhaps that's why I was so cruel to that young man to-night. He said things that I wanted to say—and couldn't."
Mrs. Dodson, suddenly looking very old and tired and weak, faded away, and in her place Judith saw Good. "If we were angels," he was saying. "If ... but we're not. We're only humans...."
Then Good vanished, and Mrs. Dodson, again her quiet, efficient self, reappeared. Her voice had changed, too. It was the calm, business-like tone which the world knew.
"You have wealth, my dear. The pleasures of society no longer appeal. You have made a start. I see no reason for discouragement."
"But I want to start," cried Judith. "I want to feel my hands on something."
"There are a number of committees and boards on which you might serve—"
"Oh, but that's the ordinary thing. I've done that."
"Not exactly." Mrs. Dodson's voice was a trifle grim. "You were a sociological dilettante. You were an amateur, so to speak."
"But it's so cut-and-dried."
"You must first learn the ropes. You have to know your tools before you can use them. It will be dry and tedious, of course, and there will be no sense of accomplishment. It will be educational. The accomplishment—such as it is—will come later."