"Conny's no more selfish than most of us women,—only her methods are more direct—and successful."
"That is cynical," Isabelle retorted. "Most of us women are not selfish; I am not!"
And in her childlike way she asked her husband that very night:—
"John, do you think I am selfish?"
John answered this large question with a laugh and a pleasant compliment.
"I suppose Margaret means that I don't go in for charities, like that Mrs. Knop of the Relief and Aid, or for her old Consumers' League. Well, I had enough of that sort of thing in St. Louis. And I don't believe it does any good; it is better to give money to those who know how to spend it…. Have you any poor relatives we could be good to, John? … Any cousins that ought to be sent to college, any old aunts pining for a trip to California?"
"Lots of 'em, I suppose," her husband responded amiably. "They turn up every now and then, and I do what I can for them. I believe I am sending two young women to college to fit themselves for teaching."
Lane was generous, though he had the successful man's suspicion of all those who wanted help. He had no more formulated ideas about doing for others than his wife had. But when anything appealed to him, he gave and had a comfortable sense that he was helping things along.
Isabelle, in spite of the disquiet caused by Margaret's statement, felt convinced that she was doing her duty in life broadly, "in that station where Providence had called her." 'She was sure that she was a good wife, a good daughter, a good mother. And now she meant to be more than these humdrum things,—she meant to be Somebody, she meant to live! …
When she found time to call at the Woodyards', she saw that the house was closed, and the caretaker, who was routed out with difficulty, informed her that the master and mistress had sailed for Europe the week before.