. And then, the
things at table. I was scared to death--all the time. You people can eat
with a dozen forks and enjoy it. I can't. I'm not used to it. I...."

"But those things aren't important. You've told me so yourself."

"That's just it," he cried hotly. "They're not. But you--"

"I?"

"Oh, I don't mean you, personally--you--your class, your friends--make
me feel as if they were important. Why should such little things make
such a part of life? You and I are miles apart because of trifles. The
big things, the real things, where are they? I'm your inferior
because--because--I can't use an oyster fork. And yet I'm your equal in
things that matter. I'm beneath--those--emptyheads, your friends. I used
words they couldn't understand ... but I'm 'common.' They made me hate
them--those nice people--hate the ground they tread...."

She was amazed at the intensity with which he spoke. She wanted to say
something to calm him, but there seemed nothing to say. He sucked
moodily for a moment on his empty pipe. Then his voice softened again.

"I oughtn't to talk this way about your friends--but it's hard for me
not to be candid ... with you," he said quietly. "I've said my mind to
you so uniformly, you know."

"Please do--always," she said seriously.

"I don't want you to feel that I'm bitter against these people
personally--it's all for what they signify. Why should they be handsome
and strong and well dressed and--have good manners ... and I have none
of those things? They've had everything, and I--usually I'm a
philosopher ... funny, isn't it, that a perfectly sound philosophy
should get drowned in such a little thing as a finger-bowl."

"Why _should_ we have all those things?" she asked thoughtfully, more to
herself than to him. He turned around at that, and studied her.

"I've often wondered if you'd ever say that?" he said.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I've said it often--lately."

"And what is the answer?"

"I don't know."

"And that's the right one. Nobody does."

"It _is_ unjust and wrong. I can't get away from that. But what to do--I
don't know that."

"Go sell what thou hast ... and come follow me," said Good slowly, as if
merely repeating a formula, and not caring whether she heard or not. It
struck her as curious that that should have been the text of the first
sermon she had ever heard Imrie preach.

"Suppose I did--give up all?" she asked.

He refilled and lighted his pipe before he replied.