“Florence,” I continued, “is quite right in wanting to be loved. It is the best thing in the world.”
“Except loving,” said Virginia.
“Of course,” I answered; “but to want to be loved by those we love for what we really are, and truly to wish to be what they can truly love, that is the whole of goodness, I believe. The only difference between vanity and true worth is that the vain person wishes to appear to be what is lovable—which is very unsafe—and the truly good person wishes to be it.”
“You mean,” said Henry, “that vanity is company manners?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know,” Florence said. “I have liked people who used ‘company manners’ for some company, and not for others.”
“I have known people,” said Marian, “who were always agreeable and sweet, and appeared to want every one to like them, and yet were not a bit lovable.”
“Naturally,” I said, “the person who wishes to be loved for what he is, is also willing to be hated for it, if he must, by those who think otherwise.” I said there was a man of whom we had heard much during the last days (because of his centenary) who seemed to be exactly what we meant by good. This was Abraham Lincoln. We spent some time speaking of him, the man who, it seems to me, might have inspired a new American religion.
“We always sympathize most with those,” said Henry, “who sympathize with us.”
“We love them most,” I said, “but the man of large heart will often sympathize with people who understand him no better than they understand the sunshine: with the bad man, for instance.”