"If our journeyings," he remarked drily, "are to contain everywhere
incidents such as these, they will become a sort of sentimental
pilgrimage."
Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders.
"I am sorry," he said, "that my interest in the child has annoyed you.
At any rate, it is over now. The parson was mysterious, but he assured
me that she was provided for."
Wingrave looked across the carriage with cold, reflective curiosity.
"Your point of view," he remarked, "is a mystery to me! I cannot see
how the future of an unfledged brat like that can possibly concern
you!"
"Perhaps not," Aynesworth answered, "but you must remember that you
are a little out of touch with your fellows just now. I daresay when
you were my age, you would have felt as I feel. I daresay that as the
years go on, you will feel like it again."
Wingrave was thoughtful for a moment.
"So you think," he remarked, "that I may yet have in me the making of
a sentimentalist."
Aynesworth returned his gaze as steadfastly.
"One can never tell," he answered. "You may change, of course. I hope
that you will."
"You are candid, at any rate!"
"I do not think," Aynesworth answered, "that there is any happiness in
life for the man who lives entirely apart from his fellow creatures.
Not to feel is not to live. I think that the first real act of
kindness which you feel prompted to perform will mark the opening of a
different life for you.
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