“Yes, I said that. But you must first be sure what is really selfish—”
“I know what is selfish in this case,” said the girl with a sublimity which, if foolish, was still sublimity. “She is sick—it will kill her to lose him—You have said what I expected, and I thank you, thank you, thank you! And I will do it! Oh, don't fear now but I shall; I have done it! No matter,” she went on in her exaltation, “no matter how much we care for each other, now!”
“No,” said Sewell decidedly. “That doesn't follow. I have thought of such things; there was such a case within my experience once,”—he could not help alleging this case, in which he had long triumphed,—“and I have always felt that I did right in advising against a romantic notion of self-sacrifice in such matters. You may commit a greater wrong in that than in an act of apparent self-interest. You have not put the case fully before me, and it isn't necessary that you should, but if you contemplate any rash sacrifice, I warn you against it.”
“You said that we ought to act unselfishly.”
“Yes, but you must beware of the refined selfishness which shrinks from righteous self-assertion because it is painful. You must make sure of your real motive; you must consider whether your sacrifice is not going to do more harm than good. But why do you come to me with your trouble? Why don't you go to your father—your mother?”
“I have none.”
“Ah—”
She had risen and pushed by him to the outer door, though he tried to keep her. “Don't be rash,” he urged. “I advise you to take time to think of this—”
She did not answer; she seemed now only to wish to escape, as if in terror of him.
She pulled open the door, and was gone.