"But," I said, "there was sound sense in a great deal that you were
trying to do."

"The fireplace smoked; and the kitchen sink froze up; and the cook left
because we couldn't keep her room warm."

"But you were right," I interrupted, "and I am not going to be put off
by smoking fireplaces or chilly cooks; you were right. We do have too
much, we are smothered in things, we don't enjoy what we do have--"

I paused.

"And you were making a beautiful thing, a beautiful house."

"The trouble with making a beautiful thing," she replied, "is that when
you have got it done you must straightway make another. Now I don't want
to keep on building houses or furnishing rooms. I am not after beauty--I
mean primarily--what I want is to _live_, live simply, live greatly."

She was desperately in earnest.

"Perhaps," I said, feeling as though I were treading on dangerous
ground, "you were trying to be simple for the sake of being simple. I
wonder if true simplicity is ever any thing but a by-product. If we aim
directly for it, it eludes us: but if we are on fire with some great
interest that absorbs on lives to the uttermost, we forget ourselves
into simplicity, Everything falls into simple lines around us, like a
worn garment."