ght to do evil that good might come, perhaps this motive might justify
it. And then came the question how much, in the Contessa's code, was
evil, of these proceedings? She was silenced, if not satisfied. There is
a certain casuistry involved in the most Christian charity: "thinketh no
evil," sometimes even implies an effort to think that there is no harm
in evil according to the intention in it. Lucy's intellect was confused,
though not that unobtrusive faculty of judgment in her which was
infallible, yet could be kept dumb.

"My love," said the Contessa, suddenly kissing her as a sort of
dismissal, "think that you are rich and we poor. If Bice had a
provision, if she had even as much as you give away to your poor friends
and never think of again, how different would all things be for her! But
she has nothing; and therefore I prepare my little tableaux, and study
all the effects I can think of, and produce her as in a theatre, and
shut her up to _agacer_ the audience, and keep her silent and make her
sing, all for effect; yes, all for effect. But what can I do? She has
not a penny, not a penny, not even like your poor friends."

The sudden energy with which this was said was indescribable. The
Contessa's countenance, usually so ivory-pale, shone with a sort of
reflection as if of light within, her eyes blazed, her smile gave place
to a seriousness which was almost indignation. She looked like a heroine
maintaining her right to do all that human strength could do for the
forlorn and oppressed; and there was, in fact, a certain _abandon_ of
feeling in her which made her half unconsciously open the door, and do
what was tantamount to turning her visitor out, though her visitor was
mistress of the house. Her feelings had, indeed, for the moment, got the
better of the Contessa. She had worked herself up to the point of
indignation, that Lucy who could, if she would, deliver Bice from all
the snares of poverty, had not done so, and was not, so far as appeared,
intending to do so. To find fault with the devices of the poor, and yet
not to help them--is not that one of the things least easily supportable
of all the spurns of patient merit? The Contessa was doing what she
could, all she could in her own fashion, strenuously, anxiously. But
Lucy was doing nothing, though she could have done it so easily: and
yet she found fault and criticised. Madame di Forno-Populo was swept by
a great flood of instinctive resentment. She put he