"But you cannot hope to be perfect unless wise friends point out your foibles," Mr. Winthrop assured me.
"I have never expected to reach such a height. It would be so lonely for me, you know—no society of my own kind, save here and there a poor and humble soul," I said, wickedly.
"Nevertheless, one should make the effort to stand on the top round of the ladder of human excellence."
"It is a long ladder, and the climb is wearisome, and death soon interposes and ends our ambition," I said, wearily.
"But you have such perfect assurance respecting the to-morrow of death, you must believe that excellence gained here will be so much capital to carry with you into that life; but you implicit believers very often voice your faith rather than live it," Mr. Winthrop remarked, with a touch of his accustomed sarcasm.
"Mr. Bowen lives his quite as well as he talks it, but he is the nearest perfection of any human being I ever expect to meet."
"That is hard on our set, Mrs. Flaxman. Medoline, it seems, has fished out of the slums a veritable saint, and handsome as he is good. If I remember right he is a widower."
"Yes, certainly, he is the one she got the suit of clothes for when she was in New York."
He turned to me abruptly and asked,
"How old is he?"