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"That's exactly what I meant"—the Prince laughed out this allusion to their snatch of talk in Portland Place. "It's just what I suggested."
She took, however, no notice of the reminder; she went on in her own way. "But it isn't a reason. In that case one would never do anything for her. I mean," Charlotte explained, "if one took advantage of her character."
"Of her character?"
"We mustn't take advantage of her character," the girl, again unheeding, pursued. "One mustn't, if not for HER, at least for one's self. She saves one such trouble."
She had spoken thoughtfully, with her eyes on her friend's; she might have been talking, preoccupied and practical, of someone with whom he was comparatively unconnected. "She certainly GIVES one no trouble," said the Prince. And then as if this were perhaps ambiguous or inadequate: "She's not selfish—God forgive her!—enough."
"That's what I mean," Charlotte instantly said. "She's not selfish enough. There's nothing, absolutely, that one NEED do for her. She's so modest," she developed—"she doesn't miss things. I mean if you love her—or, rather, I should say, if she loves you. She lets it go."
The Prince frowned a little—as a tribute, after all, to seriousness. "She lets what—?"
"Anything—anything that you might do and that you don't. She lets everything go but her own disposition to be kind to you. It's of herself that she asks efforts—so far as she ever HAS to ask them. She hasn't, much. She does everything herself. And that's terrible."
The Prince had listened; but, always with propriety, he didn't commit himself. "Terrible?"
"Well, unless one is almost as good as she. It makes too easy terms for one. It takes stuff, within one, so far as one's decency is concerned, to stand it. And nobody," Charlotte continued in the same manner, "is decent enough, good enough, to stand it—not without help from religion, or something of that kind. Not without prayer and fasting—that is without taking great care. Certainly," she said, "such people as you and I are not."
The Prince, obligingly, thought an instant. "Not good enough to stand it?"
"Well, not good enough not rather to feel the strain. We happen each, I think, to be of the kind that are easily spoiled."
Her friend, again, for propriety, followed the argument. "Oh, I don't know. May not one's affection for her do something more for one's decency, as you call it, than her own generosity—her own affection, HER 'decency'—has the unfortunate virtue to undo?"
"Ah, of course it must be all in that."
But she had made her question, all the same, interesting to him. "What it comes to—one can see what you mean—is the way she believes in one. That is if she believes at all."
"Yes, that's what it comes to," said Charlotte Stant.
"And why," he asked, almost soothingly, "should it be terrible?" He couldn't, at the worst, see that.
"Because it's always so—the idea of having to pity people."
"Not when there's also, with it, the idea of helping them."
"Yes, but if we can't help them?"
"We CAN—we always can. That is," he competently added, "if we care for them. And that's what we're talking about."
"Yes"—she on the whole assented. "It comes back then to our absolutely refusing to be spoiled."
"Certainly. But everything," the Prince laughed as they went on—"all your 'decency,' I mean—comes back to that."
She walked beside him a moment. "It's just what I meant," she then reasonably said.
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