"Ah, Barry!" Herrick looked at him with a half-humorous, half-sad smile. "You're very young—and youth is always—or should be—courageous. Do you really think that I, or you, or even Miss Lynn, can alter by a fraction the destiny marked out for that pretty child across the river there?"
"Destiny—no, perhaps not," said Barry, taken aback by the big word. "But we might help her—help her to find herself, as the Ibsenites call it—realize her soul, and all the rest of it. The soul's there, all right, but somehow it seems to be hidden, undeveloped, or something of the sort."
For a second the older man said nothing, though his square white teeth clenched themselves on the stem of his pipe. Then, removing the latter, he said slowly:
"Do you remember what Browning says, Barry?
'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls
And matter enough to save one's own!'
Well, don't you agree with him—and me—that one's own soul takes a vast deal of salvation?"
"Yes, of course—but still—I thought you would be ready to help...."
His accent of dejection touched the other man's heart.
"Come, don't look so disappointed. Of course I'll help, as much as I can! It ought to be an interesting task, anyway, helping a woman to find her soul. And if I can help her in any way, I will."
"Good! But how?" He wanted to clinch the matter.