"Can one man do nothing then for another?"
"Of course he can. But he won't do it by shouting in the market-place. The only thing he can really do is to live in such a way that other people see that his way of living is better than their own. Let him live—not just talk about living."
"And what about reform, all that bright dream of a reconstruction of society which——?"
"Yes, I know what you are going to say. And my answer is, that reform comes by example, too. One man who shows others how to live by living accomplishes more than all the books that were ever written."
"You needn't think father means to stop writing, for he doesn't," said Elizabeth, with a smile.
"No, I shall write, because that's my métier—the grass that suits me best. But there's this difference. I used to think, when I had written a book, that I had done all that was required of me. Now I see I must live my books. There's far too much writing in the world, and far too much preaching; there's never been enough living."
"I'm sure you've discussed that point long enough," said Mrs. Bundy. "Come and look at my new conservatory. Do you know I've turned orchid-grower? I really prefer roses; but Bundy wants orchids, just because they're expensive. It's a terrible thing to be rich, because you've got to have what other people want, instead of what you want."
They went into the conservatory, and presently, under the skilful management of Mrs. Bundy, Arthur found himself alone with Elizabeth. They sat there a long time, hand in hand, in sympathetic silence. For these two had reached that most perfect union of spirit, which is quite beyond the common mediations of language. Love for them had found its rarest form, a complete repose. From the first they had rested on each other, and, by a kind of spiritual clairvoyance, had read the deepest secrets of each other's thought. They had no need to reiterate the lover's hungry question, "Do you love me?" Such a question implies dubiety, and they had no doubts. Elizabeth's hand, laid in his, said everything; her lips, yielded willingly to his, would have been profaned by speech. And in those long sacramental silences there was something holy—an ardour of the spirit, for which language had no symbols.
They returned at last into the library, where they found Vickars and Bundy engaged in conversation.
"You have quite made your mind up to live with your father?" asked Bundy.