Meanwhile Horatia was probing Jim.
“They live—beautifully—and it all makes a wonderful harmony.”
“So did nuns in cloisters.”
“But they aren’t cloistered.”
“In a way. They are removed from all earthly trials and they go on the assumption that a thousand perfect individuals will be able to leaven the world. They won’t. Nor ten thousand. The only thing that will leaven the world is the effort of millions of imperfect people.”
“That’s true,” said Horatia, gravely.
He turned to her swiftly.
“Of course it’s true, but it’s not my criticism of them. My criticism of them is bred in jealousy. Because they have all the things actual and spiritual that lend to beauty. I want them for you and because I can’t give them to you, I swagger around on my little dust heap and belittle their mountain.”
CHAPTER XV
ROSE HUBBELL was spending the hottest of the hot weeks at Christmas Lake. Christmas Lake was a summer resort—a hotel and its satellites, plunged in a forest of pines and then made extremely accessible to motorists by assiduous care of the roads. It was beautiful and gay—entirely protected from any rough contacts with weather, and an excellent golf course and tennis courts gave those who wanted exercise opportunity, while no stigma fell upon those who preferred to dress for tennis or golf without running any risk of soiling their clothes. A great many unattached, wealthy people moved lazily about the lawns, eating, drinking, watching, talking and finding the place entirely to their liking. So did Rose Hubbell. Just enough of her story was known to make her interesting and her prettiness and clever clothes added to the interest in her. She was skillful enough to be docile before the elder women and wise enough not to attempt to compete with the very young ones. And by choosing her rôle carefully she drew around her both young and old, the old pitying her and the younger ones admiring romance, as she incarnated it for them.