From the contagion of the world's slow stain.

How divine!--and yet what nonsense!" She looked lightly round the room.
"I always think it's _living_, not dying, that counts. I really respect
some snuffy old stockbroker who's gone on adding up column after column
all his days, and trotting back to his villa at Brixton with some old
pug dog he worships, and a dreary little wife sitting at the end of the
table, and going off to Margate for a fortnight--I assure you I know
heaps like that--well, they seem to me _really_ nobler than poets whom
every one worships, just because they're geniuses and die young. But I
don't expect _you_ to agree with me!"

She pressed Rachel's shoulder.

"Um-m-m--" she went on quoting--

Unrest which men miscall delight--

"When you're my age you'll see that the world is _crammed_ with
delightful things. I think young people make such a mistake about
that--not letting themselves be happy. I sometimes think that happiness
is the only thing that counts. I don't know you well enough to say, but
I should guess you might be a little inclined to--when one's young and
attractive--I'm going to say it!--_every_thing's at one's feet." She
glanced round as much as to say, "not only a few stuffy books and Bach."

"I long to ask questions," she continued. "You interest me so much. If
I'm impertinent, you must just box my ears."

"And I--I want to ask questions," said Rachel with such earnestness that