“I wish she were safe from that man.”
“But, Dad, why? George likes him and so do I.”
A big grey moth was fluttering against the lamp. Pierson got up and caught it in the curve of his palm. “Poor thing! You're like my Nollie; so soft, and dreamy, so feckless, so reckless.” And going to the curtains, he thrust his hand through, and released the moth.
“Dad!” said Gratian suddenly, “we can only find out for ourselves, even if we do singe our wings in doing it. We've been reading James's 'Pragmatism.' George says the only chapter that's important is missing—the one on ethics, to show that what we do is not wrong till it's proved wrong by the result. I suppose he was afraid to deliver that lecture.”
Pierson's face wore the smile which always came on it when he had to deal with George, the smile which said: “Ah, George, that's very clever; but I know.”
“My dear,” he said, “that doctrine is the most dangerous in the world. I am surprised at George.”
“I don't think George is in danger, Dad.”
“George is a man of wide experience and strong judgment and character; but think how fatal it would be for Nollie, my poor Nollie, whom a little gust can blow into the candle.”
“All the same,” said Gratian stubbornly, “I don't think anyone can be good or worth anything unless they judge for themselves and take risks.”
Pierson went close to her; his face was quivering.