Presently Father Payne insisted on sitting down in a sheltered place.  He flung his hat off, and sate there, looking round him with a smile, his arms clasped round his big knees.  “Well,” he said, “it’s a jolly place, the old world, to be sure!  Plenty of nasty and ugly things, I suppose, going on in corners; but if you look round, they are only a small percentage of the happy things.  They don’t force themselves upon the eye and ear, the beastly things:  and it’s a stupid and faithless mistake to fix the imagination and the reason too much upon them.  We are all of us in a tight place occasionally, and we have to meet it as best we can.  But I don’t think we do it any better by anticipating it beforehand.  What is more, no one can really help us or deliver us:  we can be made a little more comfortable, and that’s all, by what they call cooling drinks, and flowers in a vase by the bedside.  And it’s a bad thing to get the misery of the world in a vague way on our nerves.  That’s the useless emotion.  We have got certain quite definite things to do for other people in our own circle, and we are bound to do them; we mustn’t shirk them, and we mustn’t shirk our own troubles, though the less we bother about them the better.  I am not at all sure that the curse of the newspapers is not that they collect all the evils of the world into a hideous posy, and thrust it under our nose.  They don’t collect the fine, simple, wholesome things.  Now you and I are better employed to-day in being agreeable to each other—­at least you are being kind to me, even though I can’t talk about that book—­and in looking at the delightful things going on everywhere—­just think of all the happiness in the world to-day, symbolised by that ridiculous wren!—­we are better employed, I say, than if we were extending the commerce of England, or planning how to make war, or scolding people in sermons about their fatal indifference to the things that belong to their peace.  Men and women must find and make their own peace, and we are doing both to-day.  That awful vague sense of responsibility, that desire to interfere, that wish that everyone else should do uncomplaining what we think to be their duty—­that’s all my eye!  It is the kindly, eager, wholesome life which affects the world, wherever it is lived:  and that is the best which most of us can do.  We can’t be always fighting.  Even the toughest old veteran soldier—­how many hours of his life has he spent actually under fire?  No, I’m not forgetting the workers either:  but you need not tell me that they are all sick at heart because they are not dawdling in a country lane.  It would bore them to death, and they can live a very happy life without it.  That’s the false pathos again—­to think that everyone who can’t do as we like must be miserable.  And anyhow, I have done my twenty-five years on the treadmill, and I am not going to pretend it was noble work, because it wasn’t.  It was useless and disgraceful drudgery, most of it!”