“If that is a reproof, I thank you for it,” she answered. “It may do me good. This wayward soul of mine is all wrong. Be patient with me. I can't help thinking that most men living are, at the bottom, wholly selfish and truly miserable.”
“Very few people are truly miserable. If this were not the case, the world and all creatures must have perished long ago.”
“Well, I can tell you of three wretches at any rate.”
“Three—against the world and all the planets and heaven?” said he.
“Yes. They are Beauclerk, and Agnes and I. We want time and space annihilated in order that we may be happy. We must be humorous studies to those looking on, but we are, nevertheless, utterly desperate. This is true. Scold me now—if you can. Tell me what is to become of us—if you dare.”
She stood up. She clenched her small hands, set her lips, and grew so pale that the pearls around her neck seemed dark.
“Tell me what is to become of us—if you dare,” she repeated, “because mischief is certain. You belong to those who endure and fight good fights, and keep the faith. Beauclerk and I are of another order altogether. We suffer without endurance, we fight without winning, and the little faith we have is so little that it is taken away from us. As for Agnes—wait! She is encased, at present, in conventionalities. But she is gradually getting rid of these wrappings and trappings. She will surprise you all yet.”
“I can believe that. She is a woman, and a good one. All the surprising, inconceivable things are done by good women.”
“And most of the wicked things, too.”
“Possibly.”