"And those who don't do that, who merely live on what others produce,
seem to be excluded from the privilege of helpfulness."
"I can't see that. They help with their money."
"Money can't help, except indirectly. It's the great mistake of our
philanthropies to think it can. We make a great many mistakes; but we
can make more in our philanthropies than anywhere else. We've never
taken the pains to study the psychology of help. We think money the
panacea for every kind of need, when as a matter of fact it's only the
outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. If you
haven't got the grace the sign rings false, like an imitation coin."
"Well, what is the grace?"
"Oh, it's a good many things--a blend--of which, I suppose, the main
ingredient is love." She gave me a wistful half-smile, as she added:
"Love is a very queer thing--I mean this kind of big love for--just for
people. You can always tell whether it's true or false; and the less
sophisticated the people the more instinctively they know. If it's true
they'll accept you; if it's only pumped up, they'll shut you out."
"I'm sure you ought to know."
"I do know. I've had a lot of experience--in being shut out."
"You?"
She nodded toward Drinkwater and Miss Blair. "They don't let me in. In
spite of all I try to do for them, they're only polite to me. They'll
accept this kind of thing; but I'm as far outside their
confidence--outside their hearts--as a bird in a cage, as I've called
myself, is outside a flock of nest-builders."
"And assuming that that is so--though I do not assume it--how do you
account for it?
"Oh, easily enough! I'm not the real thing. I never was--not at the
Settlement--not now--not anywhere or at any time."
"But how would you describe the real thing?"
"I can't describe it. All I know is that I'm not it. I'm not working
for them, but for myself."
"For yourself--how?"
"To fill in an empty life. When you've no real life you seek an
artificial one. As every one rejects the artificial, you get rejected.
That's all."
"What would you call a real life--for yourself?"
The fierceness with which she had been speaking became intensified, even
when tempered with her diffident half-smile.
"A life in which there was something I was absolutely obliged to do. I
begin to wonder if parents know how much of the zest of living they're
taking away from their children by leaving them, as we say, well
provided for. When there's nothing within reason you can't have and
nothing within reason you can't do--well, then, you're out of the
running."
"Is that the way you look at yourself--as out of the running?"
"That's the way I _am_."
"And is there no means of getting into the running?"
"There might be if I wasn't such a coward."
"If you weren't such a coward what would you do?"
"Oh, there are things. You've--you've found them. I would do like
you."
"And do you know what I'm doing?"
"I can guess."
"And you guess--what?"
"It's only a guess--of course."
"But what is it?"
She rose with a weary gesture. "What's the good of talking about it? A
knight in disguise remains in disguise till he chooses to throw off his
incognito."
"And when he has thrown it off--what does he become then?"
"He may become something else--but he's--he's none the less--a knight."
We stood looking at each other, in one of those impulses of mutual
frankness that are not without danger.
"And if there was a knight who--who couldn't throw off his incognito?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Then I suppose he'd always be a knight in
disguise--something like Lohengrin."
"And what would Elsa think of that?"
Seeing the implication in this indiscreet question even before she did,
I felt myself flush hotly.
I admired the more, therefore, the ease with which she carried the
difficult moment off. Moving a few steps toward Drinkwater and Miss
Blair, who were shutting up the tea-basket, she threw over her shoulder:
"If there was an Elsa I suppose she'd make up her mind when the time
came."
She was still moving forward when I overtook her to say:
"I wish I could speak plainly."