"The buggy came home," said the servant."Mr.Jadwin told Jarvis not to wait.He said he would come in the street cars."Laura reflected that she could delay dinner a half hour, and gave orders to that effect.
"We shall have to wait a little," she explained to Corthell as they exchanged greetings in the drawing-room."Curtis has some special business on hand to-day, and is half an hour late."
They sat down on either side of the fireplace in the lofty apartment, with its sombre hangings of wine-coloured brocade and thick, muffling rugs, and for upwards of three-quarters of an hour Corthell interested her with his description of his life in the cathedral towns of northern Italy.But at the end of that time dinner was announced.
1
"No, madam."
She bit her lip in vexation.
"I can't imagine what can keep Curtis so late," she murmured."Well," she added, at the end of her resources, "we must make the best of it.I think we will go in, Mr.Corthell, without waiting.Curtis must be here soon now."But, as a matter of fact, he was not.In the great dining-room, filled with a dull crimson light, the air just touched with the scent of lilies of the valley, Corthell and Mrs.Jadwin dined alone.
"I suppose," observed the artist, "that Mr.Jadwin is a very busy man.""Oh, no," Laura answered."His real estate, he says, runs itself, and, as a rule, Mr.Gretry manages most of his Board of Trade business.It is only occasionally that anything keeps him down town late.I scolded him this morning, however, about his speculating, and made him promise not to do so much of it.I hate speculation.It seems to absorb some men so; and Idon't believe it's right for a man to allow himself to become absorbed altogether in business.""Oh, why limit one's absorption to business?" replied Corthell, sipping his wine."Is it right for one to be absorbed 'altogether' in anything--even in art, even in religion?""Oh, religion, I don't know," she protested.
"Isn't that certain contribution," he hazarded, "which we make to the general welfare, over and above our own individual work, isn't that the essential? I suppose, of course, that we must hoe, each of us, his own little row, but it's the stroke or two we give to our neighbour's row--don't you think?--that helps most to cultivate the field.""But doesn't religion mean more than a stroke or two?"she ventured to reply.
"I'm not so sure," he answered, thoughtfully."If the stroke or two is taken from one's own work instead of being given in excess of it.One must do one's own hoeing first.That's the foundation of things.Areligion that would mean to be 'altogether absorbed' in my neighbour's hoeing would be genuinely pernicious, surely.My row, meanwhile, would lie open to weeds.""But if your neighbour's row grew flowers?""Unfortunately weeds grow faster than the flowers, and the weeds of my row would spread until they choked and killed my neighbour's flowers, I am sure.""That seems selfish though," she persisted."Suppose my neighbour were maimed or halt or blind? His poor little row would never be finished.My stroke or two would not help very much.""Yes, but every row lies between two others, you know.
The hoer on the far side of the cripple's row would contribute a stroke or two as well as you.No," he went on, "I am sure one's first duty is to do one's own work.It seems to me that a work accomplished benefits the whole world--the people--pro rata.If we help another at the expense of our work instead of in excess of it, we benefit only the individual, and, pro rata again, rob the people.A little good contributed by everybody to the race is of more, infinitely more, importance than a great deal of good contributed by one individual to another.""Yes," she admitted, beginning at last to be convinced, "I see what you mean.But one must think very large to see that.It never occurred to me before.The individual--I, Laura Jadwin--counts for nothing.It is the type to which I belong that's important, the mould, the form, the sort of composite photograph of hundreds of thousands of Laura Jadwins.Yes," she continued, her brows bent, her mind hard at work, "what I am, the little things that distinguish me from everybody else, those pass away very quickly, are very ephemeral.But the type Laura Jadwin, that always remains, doesn't it?
One must help building up only the permanent things.
Then, let's see, the individual may deteriorate, but the type always grows better....Yes, I think one can say that.""At least the type never recedes," he prompted.
"Oh, it began good," she cried, as though at a discovery, "and can never go back of that original good.Something keeps it from going below a certain point, and it is left to us to lift it higher and higher.No, the type can't be bad.Of course the type is more important than the individual.And that something that keeps it from going below a certain point is God.""Or nature."
"So that God and nature," she cried again, "work together? No, no, they are one and the same thing.""There, don't you see," he remarked, smiling back at her, "how ****** it is?""Oh-h," exclaimed Laura, with a deep breath, "isn't it beautiful?" She put her hand to her forehead with a little laugh of deprecation."My," she said, "but those things make you think."Dinner was over before she was aware of it, and they were still talking animatedly as they rose from the table.
"We will have our coffee in the art gallery," Laura said, "and please smoke."He lit a cigarette, and the two passed into the great glass-roofed rotunda.
"Here is the one I like best," said Laura, standing before the Bougereau.
"Yes?" he queried, observing the picture thoughtfully.
"I suppose," he remarked, "it is because it demands less of you than some others.I see what you mean.It pleases you because it satisfies you so easily.You can grasp it without any effort.""Oh, I don't know," she ventured.
"Bougereau 'fills a place.' I know it," he answered.
