A little later she claimed his assistance in another matter.
“It’s the extension of premises for the Institution,” she said. “The plans came in yesterday and I can’t make head or tail of them.”
She produced the roll of plans from a corner, and spread the sheets on the desk. They bent over them together, and for a long time were deep in architectural discussion.
“It will take such a long time,” she said at last. “I wish I could have it all built to-morrow.”
“I have no doubt you could, if you really tried,” said Hugh. “You can bring most things to pass.”
The Institution was Irene’s pet philanthropic interest—a charitable organisation of which she was the founder and guiding principle. At first Gerard had scouted the scheme as entirely impracticable; but Irene had succeeded, and, devoting to it her impetuous energy, had lifted those around her to equal enthusiasm. Both Gerard and Hugh were members of the committee, and attended meetings with praiseworthy regularity.
Irene rolled up the plans and replaced them in their corner.
“How little we can do to alleviate the misery in the world!” she said, with a sigh.
Hugh smiled. “If you could only get a lever long enough and a fulcrum you would move the universe, like Archimedes. But you will have to get to heaven first.”
“That’s just the appalling part of the idea of heaven,” she answered. “As soon as you get there you are useless, utterly and besottedly useless. It’s the only terrible aspect of death, that whether there is an hereafter or not, you are cut off forever from doing a hand’s turn for your fellow creatures. Everything has to be done in the little sphere of your life—when lever and fulcrum are unattainable. I wonder sometimes that I can be happy. And yet I am—blessedly happy. Can you explain it?”