BEFORE THE LENS
"Red, this is certainly the unkindest cut of all! I haven't minded your
other prescriptions, but to insist on giving a well man the worst dose
of his experience to take--"
"Stuff and nonsense! A bad prescription--to go across the street and let
the prettiest photographer in the United States take a sun picture of
you before you leave town? Besides, you owe it to us. I haven't the
smallest kind of a likeness of you. I want a nice big one, to use in my
advertisements. I only wish I had a picture of you 'as you were,' to
put beside the 'as you are.' It would be telling. 'The great Burns's
greatest cure. The celebrated Leaver of Baltimore as he was when Burns
finished with him.' I'll send you a dozen copies of the paper."
"Please, Dr. Leaver." Mrs. Red Pepper Burns added her plea. "Red really
wants it very much, and so do I. You admit you have no photograph to send
us, and we know quite well you won't go and have one made by Mr. Brant,
as you should. So please let Miss Ruston try her art. We think you owe it
to us."
Leaver looked at her, and his determined lips relaxed into a smile.
"I admit that argument tells, Mrs. Burns," he said. "I suppose it is
ungracious of me, but, to tell the truth, I've always preferred to be
able to say I had no portraits of myself."
"Oh, I see," Burns broke in. "We're not considering, Ellen, the urgent
demands for a popular bachelor surgeon's photograph. It's precisely like
Jack not to hand them out to the ladies, or to the newspaper men. All
right, old chap. Give us what we want and we'll have the plate smashed.
Now will you be good? Come, let's go over. If you really mean to leave
to-night this is our last chance."
The two men crossed the street, in the mellow September sunshine. Burns
preceded Leaver and knocked at the door.
"Will you take a shot at my friend before he goes?" Burns asked
Charlotte. "He hates standing up to be shot at, but I have him primed
for the ordeal."
"Must it be a shot, or may I make a portrait?" asked the photographer, in
her professional manner.
"I want a portrait," replied Burns, promptly. "Your best indoor
work--Brant and the Misses Kendall put on their mettle to rival it."
While Charlotte was absent, making ready her plates, her visitors waited
in the little living-room and looked about it. Its walls were now
possessed of many interesting photographs of people in the village,
among them several of Burns himself, at which he gazed with a quizzical
expression.
"She certainly succeeds in making a hero of me, doesn't she?" he
observed. "Red hair turns dusky before the camera, luckily for me. I look
as if there wasn't much of anything I couldn't do, including playing
leading man in a melodrama--eh?"
"She has caught the personality, cleverly enough," Leaver commented,
looking over Burns's shoulder.
"I rather think, though," mused Burns, "that I don't look so much as if
there wasn't anything I couldn't do as that I thought there wasn't.
There's a difference, Jack,--eh? Do I really seem as ready to bounce out
of my chair and tackle somebody as that picture makes me look? If I do I
need to have a tourniquet applied somewhere about my neck to stop the
flow of blood to my bumptious head."
Smiling, Leaver studied the photograph in question. "It's the best I ever
saw of you. It's precisely that air of being all there and ready for
action which is your most endearing characteristic. It is the quality
which made me willing to put myself in your hands last April."
"Much obliged. But you didn't put yourself in my hands. I laid hands
on you and tied you down. I couldn't do it now, though," and Burns
turned to survey his friend with satisfaction. "You are in elegant trim,
if I do say it who shouldn't, and that's why I want a picture of my
handiwork--and Nature's. It's just possible that Nature deserves some
credit, not to mention Amy Mathewson. By the way, she's another who must
have this portrait of you, my boy."
"She certainly shall, if she cares for it," admitted Leaver, gravely.
"I'm very willing to remind her how much I owe her, in that and better
ways."
Charlotte appeared. As she set about her work Bob came racing over the
lawn and in at the open door.
"Uncle Red, somebody wants you right away quick!" he announced.
"Just my luck! I wanted to help pose the picture," grumbled Burns, but
went off, the boy on his shoulder shouting with delight.
The photographer, in the plain dress of dull blue, which, artist-wise,
she had chosen as her professional garb, and in which she herself made a
picture to be observed with enjoyment, moved deftly about the room
arranging her lights and shadows. This done, she turned to her sitter.
When she came in he had been standing before a set of prints upon the
wall, studying them critically, but from the moment of her entrance he
had been watching her, though he held a photograph in his hand with which
he might have seemed to be engaged.
"Ready?" she asked, smiling. "Or, rather, as ready as you ever will be?"
"Does my reluctance show as plainly as that? But I am quite ready now to
do your bidding."
"Sit down in that chair, please. But first--I really can't wait longer to
ask you--how is Jamie Ferguson?"
"Doing finely." His face lighted with pleasure at the thought.
"Will he have the full use of his poor little legs?"
"It is too soon to say positively. We hope quite confidently for that
result. He shows better powers of recuperation than we dared expect."
"Yesterday," said Charlotte, her hand on a certain bulb out of sight,
"Miss Mathewson told me something Jamie had said. It was the most
extraordinary thing--"
She related the incident, in which the lad had shyly praised both
Leaver and Burns as seeming to him like big brothers. She told it with
animation, her watchful eyes on her sitter's face. At a certain point,
just before the climax of the story, she gave the bulb a long, slow
pressure; then, ending, she remarked:
"Now, if you are ready, Dr. Leaver."
His face immediately grew grave, lost its expression of interested
attention, and set in lines of resignation. She went through a number of
motions and announced that the sitting was over.
"It wasn't so bad, was it?" she questioned, gayly, as she removed the
plate she had used. "I'm not even going to try again. I've discovered
that it's not always best to repeat an attempt, and when you are pretty
sure you have what you want, it doesn't pay."
"Thank you for making the operation so nearly painless. I haven't had
a photograph taken since I was a medical student, and I wasn't prepared
for so short a trial. But, even so, I felt the desperateness of the
situation. Doubtless that will show plainly in the final result."
"Mine is a discreet camera, and doesn't tell all it sees, so it is
possible it may keep your reluctance disguised."
She took away the plate, left him for a few minutes alone among the
photographs, and returned.
"It is quite all right, I think, Dr. Leaver," she said, "and the agony is
over. You are leaving town to-day?"
He rose. "I go to-night. I should have come to say good-bye, in any case,
but, as I go out to Sunny Farm for one more look at the boy, I must be
off. So--I'll make this the good-bye."
"I hope you'll have the busiest, happiest sort of winter," she said, in
the charming, friendly way which was naturally her own. "So busy and so
happy you'll forget this long, trying time of waiting to be well. Surely,
the rest--and Dr. Burns--have done the work. When you see the portrait
I hope it will show you, better than looking at yourself in any mirror,
what good has been done."
"Thank you. I know a great change has been wrought, somehow, thanks to a
man who insisted on having his own way when I didn't want to let him. You
expect to stay in this cottage all winter?"
"All winter, and all spring. Imagine us by a splendid fire in this good
fireplace."
"I hope it won't smoke on windy days." Leaver looked doubtfully at it.
"It strikes me as better photographic material than as practical defence
against the cold."
"I shall demonstrate that it is entirely practical. And Granny's little
feet will seldom touch the floor. I have a beautiful foot-warmer for her,
which will keep her snug as comfort."
"I know you have a strong courage, and will face any discomfort bravely."
His eyes were dwelling upon her face, noting each outline, as if he meant
to take the memory of it with him.
"All the courage in the world. What would life be without it? With it,
one can do anything."
"I believe you." He was silent for a moment, still looking at her
intently. "I wonder," he said then, "if you would be willing to give me
something I very much want. I have no right to ask it, and yet, for the
sake of many pleasant hours we have spent together--that's a tame phrase
for me to use of them, from my standpoint--for their sake would you be
willing to let me have--a picture of yourself? I promise you it shall be
seen by no one but myself. It would mean a good deal to me. Yet, if you
are not entirely willing, I won't ask it."
He spoke in the quietest, grave way. After a moment's hesitation she
answered him as quietly.
"I don't know why I should mind, Dr. Leaver, and yet, somehow, I find
I do. Will you believe it's not because I don't want to please you?"
His face showed, in spite of him, that the denial hurt him. He held out
his hand.
"You are quite right to be frank. Shall we say good-bye? All kinds of
success to you this winter--and always."
"Thank you, Dr. Leaver. I give you back the wish."
They shook hands, the two faces smiling at each other. Then he went
quickly away. Looking after him she saw that he carried his hat in his
hand until he had reached the gate in the hedge. He closed the gate
without a backward glance, and in a minute more was out of sight.
She went into her dark-room and examined again the plate she had just
developed. Holding it in a certain light, against darkness, she was able
to obtain a faint view of the picture as it would be in the print.
Unquestionably she had made a lifelike and extraordinarily attractive
portrait of a man of distinguished features, caught at a moment when he
had had no notion that the thing was happening. She studied it long and
attentively.
"It would have been better if I hadn't made it," she said slowly to
herself. "For now I shall have it to look at, and I shall have to look at
it. I'm not strong enough--not strong enough--I don't _want_ to be strong
enough--to forego that!"
* * * * *
After nightfall, on that September evening, Leaver took his departure.
Burns was to convey him in the Imp to the city station, because his
train did not stop in the suburban village. For a half-hour before his
going Burns's porch was full, the Macauleys and the Chesters having come
over to do Dr. Leaver honour. They found less chance for talking with him
than they might have done if he had not gone off with Miss Mathewson for
a short walk.
"Something in it, possibly, do you think?" James Macauley asked, in an
aside, of Mrs. Burns. "Miss Mathewson certainly has developed a lot of
good looks this summer that I, for one, never suspected her of before.
Whether she could interest a man like him I don't know and can't guess.
He's no ordinary man. I didn't like him much at first, but as he's
improved in health he's shown up for what he is, and I can understand
Red's interest in getting him on his feet again. He's certainly on 'em
now. That was a great stunt he did for the little chap, according to Red.
Looks a bit suggestive of interest, his going off with Miss Amy for a
walk, at the last minute, don't you think? Still, I can't imagine any
man's looking in that direction when there's what there is across the
street. He hasn't shown any signs of life, there, has he?"
"Jimmy, you're a sad gossip. If I knew all these people's affairs, or if
I knew none of them, I shouldn't discuss them with you. But I'm quite
willing to agree with you that both Amy and Charlotte are delightful,
each in her way."
"Never did get any satisfaction out of you," grumbled James Macauley,
good humouredly. "I didn't suppose women had such a fine sense of honour
when it came to talking over other women."
"Then it's time you found it out."
"What's this? Ellen giving you hot shot?" Burns came up, watch in
hand. "It's time those people were back. They've probably fallen into
a discussion of surgical methods, and forgotten the time."
The missing pair presently appeared. James Macauley looked curiously at
them, but could detect no sign of sentiment about them. Indeed, as they
came up the walk Leaver's voice was heard saying in a most matter-of-fact
way:
"I'll send you a reprint on that subject. You'll find the German notion
has completely changed--completely. Nothing has happened in a long time
that so marks advance in research along those lines."
"He's safe," the observer whispered to Mrs. Burns. "No fun to be had out
of that. Unless--he was clever enough to change his line when he came
within earshot. It has been done, you know. I've done it myself, though I
never jumped to German reprints as a safety station. But, you can usually
tell by the woman. She looks as if she had merely been out for a nice
walk. Not a hair out of place, no high colour, no--"
Ellen moved away from him. She was conscious that she, too, had been
noting signs, but she would not join him further in discussing them.
"I am not good at farewell speeches," said John Leaver, holding Ellen's
hand in both his own, when he had taken leave of every one else. "I only
hope I can show you, somehow, how I feel about what you and your husband
have done for me. I tried to tell Miss Mathewson something of the same
thing, but she wouldn't have it, which was fortunate, for the words stuck
in my throat."
Burns took him away. "If they hadn't, you'd have missed your train. We've
got to make time, now."
As he took his place in the Green Imp Leaver looked across the street at
the cottage back among the trees. Its windows were quite dark, although
the hour was barely ten o'clock. Burns looked over, too.
"By the way," he said, as they moved away, "why wasn't Miss Ruston among
the crowd assembled to see you off? As an acquaintance of yours in
Baltimore she ought to join in the send-off back to that town."
"She gave me her good wishes this afternoon, after taking the photograph.
Red, speaking of Baltimore, when are you coming down?"
"When I get a card saying you are holding a clinic on a subject I'm
anxious to see demonstrated."
"Do you expect me to go to holding clinics?"
"Surest thing in the world. You can't keep out of them."
"Do you suppose the men who saw my breakdown will be eager to welcome me
back?"
"No question of it. Good Lord, man, you're not the first nor the
ten-thousandth man who has broken down from overwork. Because my axe
becomes dull I'm not going to refuse to use it when it comes back from
the grindstone with a brighter edge than ever on it, am I? Wait till you
see your reception. Some of those fellows have been making a lot of
mistakes in your absence--have been trying to do things too big for them.
They'll be only too glad to turn some of their stunts over to you. And
the big ones, who are your friends, will rejoice at sight of you. Of
course you have rivals; you don't expect them to welcome you with open
arms. They'll be sorry to see you back. Let them be sorry, and be hanged
to them! Go in and show them that they're the ones who need a rest now,
and that you'll take care of their work in their absence."
Leaver laughed. "Red, there's nobody just like you," he said.
"That's lucky. Too many explosives aren't safe to have around. I know,
and have known all along, Jack, that it's been like a cat lecturing a
king, my advice to you. A better simile would be the old one of the mouse
gnawing the lion out of the net. If I've done anything for you, that's
what I've done."
Leaver turned in his seat. "Red," said he--and his voice had a deep ring
in it as he spoke--"you're about the biggest sized mouse I ever saw. I
want to tell you this: Since I've been watching your work up here I've
conceived a tremendous admiration for your standards. There are none
finer, anywhere. I've come to feel that you couldn't do anything bigger
or better in the largest place you could find. Indeed, this, for you, is
the largest place, for you fill it as another man couldn't."
"The frog, in the marsh, where he lived, was king," Burns quoted, in an
effort at lightness, for he was deeply touched.
"That's not the sort of king you are. You would be king anywhere. But
you're willing to rule over a kingdom that may look small to some, but
looks big as an empire to me, now that I understand. I've reached this
point: I am almost--and sometime I expect to be entirely--glad that the
thing happened to me which brought me here to you. You have done more for
me than any man ever did. And there's one thing I think I owe to you to
tell you. The greatest thing I've learned from you, though you haven't
said much about it, is faith in the God above us. I'd about let go of
that when I came here. Thanks to you, I've got hold of it again, and I
mean never to let go. No man can afford to let go of that--permanently."
Burns was silent for a moment, in answer to this most unexpected tribute,
silent because he could find no words. When he did speak there was a
trace of huskiness in his voice. "I'm mighty glad to know that, Jack," he
said simply.
Then, presently, for they had flown fast over the smooth road, they
were entering the city limits, traversing a crowded thoroughfare, and
approaching the great station on whose tower the illuminated face of the
clock warned them there was little time to spare. Arrived there, every
moment was consumed in a rush for tickets and in checking baggage.
Leaver secured his sleeper reservation with some difficulty, owing to a
misunderstanding in the telegram engaging it, and at the last the two men
had to run for the train. At the gate there was only space for a hasty
grip of two warm hands, a smile of understanding and affection, and an
exchange of arm-wavings at a distance as Leaver reached his car, already
on the verge of moving out.
As Burns drove away he was feeling a sense of loneliness as unpleasant as
it was unexpected, and found himself longing to get back to a certain
pair of arms whose hold was a panacea for every ache.
"He thinks he owes it all to me," he was saying by and by, when this
desirable condition had been fulfilled. "But maybe I don't owe something
to him. If the sight of a plucky fight for self-control is a bracing
tonic to any man I've had one in watching him. I never saw a finer
display of will against heavy odds. Another man in the shape he was in
last spring would have gone under."
"It would be pretty difficult, I think, dear," said his wife, softly
touching his thick locks, as his head lay on her lap, "for any man to go
under with you pulling him out."
"I didn't pull him out. No man in creation can pull another out, no
matter how strong his effort. The chap that's in the current has got to
do every last ounce of the pulling himself. I don't say God can't help,
for I'm positive He can, but I don't think a man can do much. And it's my
belief that even God helps chiefly through making the man realize that he
can help himself."
"For which office he sometimes appoints a man as his human instrument,
doesn't he?"
Burns turned his head and touched his lips to the hand which had laid
itself against his cheek.
"Perhaps, when he can't find a woman. As a power conductor she is the
only, original, copper wire!"
* * * * *
The curiosity which James Macauley had freely expressed as to the
probable degree of friendship between Leaver and Amy Mathewson, developed
by months of close association, was, with him and with others, not
unnatural. But, in Ellen's case, the desire to know just how much the
situation had meant to Amy herself, was a result of her increasingly
warm affection for a young woman of character and personal
attractiveness, mingled with a sense of her own and her husband's
responsibility in bringing together two people who might be expected
to emerge from the encounter not a little affected by it.
On the morning after John Leaver's departure, Ellen, standing at a
window, found herself watching with more than ordinary intentness the
face of Amy as she came up the walk to the house. Lest Leaver should
realize to what an extent his presence had disturbed the regular routine
of Burns's office, Amy had not been allowed to resume her position
according to the old régime, but had spent only a portion of her time
there, more as a guest of the house might assume certain duties than as a
regularly hired assistant would attend to them. This was, therefore, the
first time, since Leaver had left the confinement in his room, that Amy
Mathewson had appeared in the office in her old rôle, announced by the
donning of her uniform.
"I certainly don't see any unhappiness there," said Ellen to herself,
watching Amy as she stooped to pick up an early fallen scarlet leaf upon
the lawn. She fastened it upon the severe whiteness of her attire, then
came on to the house with an alert step, as if she approached work she
looked forward to with zest. Her colour was more vivid than it had been
last June, when first she began to live the outdoor life with her
patient, her eyes were brighter, her whole personality seemed somehow
more significant. Ellen had noted in her these signs of enriched life
many times before during these weeks; but the fact that Amy's aspect, on
the day after the departure of her comrade of the summer, seemed to have
suffered no change, but that her whole air, as she came to her old task,
was that of one who hastens to a congenial appointment, gave to Ellen a
distinct sense of relief from an anxiety she had suffered from time to
time throughout the whole experience.
Burns had gone away early, summoned by an insistent call, and the office
was empty. Knowing this, Ellen went in to greet her friend. There could
be no other term, now, for the whole-hearted bond between the two.
"Isn't it glorious, this touch of frost in the air?" Amy came in smiling,
her cheeks bright with the sting of the early October morning. "And
to-day--to-day, at last, I am free to go to work as I like. I don't
believe Dr. Burns has sent out a bill for three months. He would go
bankrupt before he would tell a man what he owed him."
"Do you like sending out bills so well as that?" Ellen asked,
incredulous.
"I like anything that means being at work again, without having to play
that I'm a lady of leisure at any moment that anybody wants my company.
I like to have things methodical and systematic. I don't even mind
sending out bills, when I know they should be sent."
She stirred about the office, getting out her typewriter and oiling it,
while the two talked of various things. Her whole manner was consistent
with her words: she seemed to be full of the very joy of living. It
occurred to Ellen once to wonder if, by any possibility, this could be
the result of expectation of future continuance of her friendship with
Leaver. But something happened presently which, though but a simple
incident enough, and all in the day's routine, made any such supposition
seem most unlikely.
The telephone bell rang. Ellen saw Amy's face change at the first sound
of her questioner's voice, with that subtle change which sometimes tells
more than the person engaged in this form of communication realizes.
"Yes, Dr. Burns," she said. "Yes ... Yes ... Yes ... Yes, I can
have everything ready in an hour ... I will ... I won't forget one
thing.... Yes ... Good-bye!"
Not an illuminating set of replies, given at long intervals which
evidently spelled instructions from the other end of the wire. But Amy's
voice was eager, her concise replies by no means veiled that fact, and
Ellen could read, as plainly as if Amy had said it, that the voice which
spoke to her was the one of all voices, as it had been for so long, which
could give the commands she loved to obey.
She turned from the desk and looked at Ellen with the same animated
expression of face. But even as she explained, she was taking instruments
from their cases, setting out certain hand-bags, and preparing to fill
them.
"It is an emergency case--operation--out in the country. Impossible to
take the patient to the hospital; everything must be made ready on the
spot. Dr. Burns is to come for me in an hour. He will let me stay with
the case. It's work, Mrs. Burns; real work again, at last!"
"You extraordinary girl! A débutante, going to a party again, after
enforced confinement at home, couldn't be gayer about it. I knew you
loved your work, but I didn't know you loved it like that!"
"Didn't you?" Her hands moving swiftly, she seemed not to stop and think
what was going to be wanted, she went from one preparation to another
with swift, sure knowledge. "I'm not sure I did, myself, until I had to
stop and take what was really just a long vacation, with hardly a thing
to do. Vacations are very pleasant--for a while--but they may last too
long."
"Evidently Dr. Leaver thought so, too. He seemed ready enough for work
again."
"Of course he was. And work--and only work--will put him quite back where
he was before the breakdown. I fully believe, Mrs. Burns, that labour is
a condition of healthy life. And of the two evils, too much labour or too
much idleness, the latter is the greater."
"You make me feel a drone," Ellen declared.
Amy gave her a quick, understanding glance.
"You? Oh, no, Mrs. Burns. You do the prettiest work in the world, and the
most necessary."
"But yours is fine--wonderful."
"Not fine, nor wonderful. Dr. Burns's work is that. Mine is
just--supplementary."
"But absolutely essential. How many times has he told me what he has owed
you all these years for perfection of detail. He says he doubts if he
himself could secure such perfection if it all depended upon his care."
Amy Mathewson bent suddenly over a strange looking instrument, whose
parts she had been examining before putting them into the bag. Her fair
cheek flushed richly. "I am glad to give him the best I can do," she
said, quietly, yet Ellen could detect an odd little thrill in her voice.
Within herself Ellen understood the truth, which she had long ago
guessed. And with it came a fresh revelation. This was the reason why Amy
Mathewson could see, unmoved, the departure of Leaver, who had been so
closely thrown with her all that strange summer. With the deep loyalty of
a few rare natures, having once given her love, even though she received
nothing but friendship in return, she could care for no future which did
not include that friendship, dearer than the love of other men.
Ellen was still in the office, held there by a curious fascination of
interest in Amy's rapid, skillful preparations. It meant so much, this
operating at a country house, she explained to Ellen. It meant the
working out of all manner of difficult details, that the final conditions
might as closely as possible resemble those which were to be had, ready
to hand, in the operating-room of any hospital.
"It's a serious handicap to a surgeon's best work," she asserted, "when
he has to do it at a home. With all my precautions, I can never feel so
sure of giving him perfect cleanliness of surroundings."
"You can, if any one can," Ellen said, feeling for the first time as she
spoke, a curious little twinge of envy of the one whom her husband had
long called, with affectionate familiarity, his "right-hand man."
Often as she had seen the two drive away together it seemed to her to-day
that she looked at them with new eyes. Just as Amy set out the closed
hand-bags, with a box and a bundle beside them, and donned hat and
driving-coat, the Green Imp came rushing up the road and stopped in front
of the house. Burns ran in, fired half a dozen rapid questions at Amy,
nodding his head with approval at her answers, said, "All right, we're
off," and picked up the hand-bags. Then he dropped them, snatched off his
cap and strode over to his wife.
"We're in a mess of a hurry," he apologized, and kissed her as if he were
thinking of something else, as he undoubtedly was. Then he seized the
bags, Amy the box and bundle, and the two hurried out. A moment later
Ellen saw the car start, getting under headway in twice its own length,
and disappearing down the road in a cloud of dust.
"She would rather stay where she can help him than go away to a home of
her own with any other man," Ellen said to herself; and the little twinge
of envy became almost a pang. She stood staring out of the window, her
dark eyes heavy with her thoughts, her lips taking on a little twist of
pain. Then, presently, she lifted her head. "She will never, never let
him know. He will never discover it for himself. But if she can find
happiness in being of use to him, and he can reward her by being her good
friend, why should I mind? Can't I be generous enough for that, when I
know I have his heart? Her love for him won't hurt him. She can't take it
back, but she will never let it show so that he can feel more of it than
is good for him. It is so little for me to spare her--so much for her to
have. I will be glad, I _will_ be glad!"
She smiled at Bobby Burns, running up the walk, but, being a woman, she
smiled through tears.
The little lad ran in. "Oh, Auntie Ellen," he cried, "do you care 'cause
I gave my new ball away? It was a new boy came to school, all patched.
He'd never had a ball in his life. Uncle Red said I had to be good to
other boys, 'cause I've got so much more'n some of them. I sort o' wanted
to keep the ball, too," he added, regretfully. "It was a dandy ball."
"But it was nice to give it away, too, wasn't it, Bob?"
He nodded, looking curiously up at her. "You're cryin', Auntie Ellen," he
said, anxiously. "Does sumpin' hurt you?"
"Nothing that ought to hurt, dear. It's too bad that being generous does
hurt sometimes. But it ought not to hurt, when we have so much more than
some of the others, ought it, Bob?"