after weighing life and death against each other, found man’s only reason for living in keeping as many of the conventions of society as he could…. And that, Joel, perhaps is the real reason, the only reason, why you should not drive your car at reckless speed…. You break your country’s law by doing so… and you cause pain and worry and anxiety to other people who may love you. For that reason, if for nothing else, you ought not to do it.”
He delivered this judgment in his quiet and toneless voice, without vanity or arrogance, but with a finality that was almost prophetic and that left no room for argument. When he was done speaking there was a deep, impersonal silence for a moment, and then the voice of Joel’s sister, Rosalind—a voice that was still the voice of a girl, but that was also sweet and low and womanly, full of noble tenderness and warmth—could be heard in all its affectionate young impulsiveness:
“Oh, but, George!—you’re an angel about everything! If everyone were like you, life would be heaven!” She took his hand between her strong, warm hands and squeezed it—an impulsive and natural gesture with her that revealed, as much as anything else, the deep and true affection of her nature. “—Darling,” she said, “—you make all of us—everyone else—feel so mean—and small—and—so petty…. I mean,” she went on with the earnest and naïve sincerity, the spontaneous admiration, of a generous and warm-spirited girl—“the way you live—the way you have spent your whole life, George, in helping other people—the way you have found out all these wonderful things about—about—Buddha and Confucius and Socrates—you know so much, George!” she cried enthusiastically—“you have learned so much, while the rest of us were just leading an idle, stupid, empty kind of life—and the way you give it all away to others—the way you give your money away to anyone who needs it—the—the—way,” she faltered suddenly, and her voice was choked with tears—“the way you have looked after poor Dick all these years”—she blurted out.
“Rosalind!” Mrs. Pierce cried out sharply and warningly, yet not with reproof so much as with apprehension.
“I don’t care!” cried Rosalind impulsively—“I—I think he’s wonderful! George, you’re a saint!” she said, and clasped his hand again.
No one spoke for a moment: George sat quietly on the terrace step, his fine and small bronzed head, his very still eyes, in whose steady, quiet depths the fatal madness which would destroy him was already legible,
