“Now, really, if every one would take care of one, and that one himself, don’t you see there would be no more want or suffering in this weary world? no more need of blankets or dispensaries?  Each is happy, comfortable, and self-cultured in his proportion.  A universal harmony prevails.  Like the planets, self-revolving, and moving, each in his chosen orbit, they shout and sing for joy.  How much better this than to be eccentrically darting off in search of somebody’s tears to wipe, somebody’s wounds to bandage,—­who, indeed, would have neither wounds nor grief, if they would follow my simple rule!”

Minnie laughed a little at her brother’s grave sophistry, but had no wish to contest the point with him.

“It is no merit in me, but, as you say, rather self-indulgence, to be looking up and relieving destitute cases.  But it would be merit in you, if you don’t like it; and you might have all that, and none of the annoyances.”

Her bright face glowed; and Fred liked to look at her when she was excited; the coloring beat Titian’s, he thought.

“You don’t know how painful to me it is to hold out empty hands to so many sufferers”—­

But now Minnie’s face looked so sorrowful that there was nothing specially beautiful in the coloring, and Fred said, impatiently,—­

“You bore me, Minnie.  I am waiting to take my afternoon nap.”

And he turned positively over towards the wall.

The sight of Minnie, swiftly walking through the driving storm to-day, brought up to Fred’s memory all the talk they had had in that very room, he lying in the same place, a fortnight ago.  Since that day he had not seen Minnie, except casually; and, indeed, she seemed very busy and very happy, if one might judge by her lighted face and her laden arm.  Something keener than philosophy, subtiler than Epicurus, pricked Fred, as Minnie vanished into the cloud of snowflakes.

“Pshaw!”

He glanced around the apartment.  It was still luxurious; but “custom had staled the infinite variety” of its ornament and furnishing.  Already he was dissatisfied with this and that.  Where to place a new bas-relief that had struck him at Cotton’s the day before, and which he had purchased on the spot, without considering that there was no room for it in the library?  There it leaned against the wall,—­not so big as the Vicar’s family-picture, but quite as much in the way.

“The room looks loaded.  I ought to have a gallery for these things.  I wonder if I couldn’t buy Carter’s house, and push a gallery through from the top of my stairway.”

He touched the bell, and lay down again.

Martin entered softly, let down the crimson curtains, so as to exclude the vanishing light, and stirred the crimson cannel into a newer radiance.

“This weather frets my nerves, Martin.  My face aches.  Give me the bottle of chloroform in my chamber.”

He inhaled the subtile fluid two or three times, and handed it back to Martin.  It made no difference, he said.  He would try to sleep.  So Martin went out on tiptoe and closed the door.