a few aristocrats?  None of the poor people are bored.  They may be unhappy, but there’s always some recompense in a steaming drink or savory stew, or some gay little festivity;—­even the vagabonds seem to get something out of life.  I realize perfectly that I’ve never had the thrills from a bridge game that came to the Marchioness when she played cards with Dick Swiveller—­by stealth.”

She talked rapidly, charmingly.  He could not be sure how much in earnest she might be—­but she made out her case and continued her argument.

“When I was a child I walked on gray velvet carpets, and there were etchings on the wall, and chilly mirrors between the long windows in the drawing-room.  And the kitchen was in the basement and I never went down.  There wasn’t a cozy spot anywhere.  None of us were cozy, my mother wasn’t.  She was very lovely and sparkling and went out a great deal and my father sparkled too.  He still does.  But there was really nothing to draw us together—­like the Cratchits or even the Kenwigs.  And we were never comfortable and merry like all of these lovely people in Pickwick.”

She went on wistfully, “When I was nine, I found these little books in our library and after that I enjoyed vicariously the life I had never lived.  That’s why I like it here—­Mrs. Flippin’s kettle sings—­and the crickets chirp—­and Mr. and Mrs. Flippin are comfortable—­and cozy—­and content.”

It was a long speech.  “So now yon see,” she said, as she ended, “why I like Dickens.”

“Yes.  I see.  And so—­in your next incarnation you are going to be like——­”

“Little Dorrit.”

He laughed and leaned forward.  “I can’t imagine—­you.”

“She really had a heavenly time.  Dickens tried to make you feel sorry for her.  But she had the best of it all through.  Somebody always wanted her.”

“But she was imposed upon.  And her unselfishness brought her heavy burdens.”

“She got a lot out of it in the end, didn’t she?  And what do selfish people get?  I’m one of them.  I live absolutely for myself.  There isn’t a person except Flora who gets anything of service or self-sacrifice out of me.  I came down here because she wanted me, but I hated to come.  The modern theory is that unselfishness weakens.  And the modern psychologist would tell you that little Dorrit was all wrong.  She gave herself for others—­and it didn’t pay.  But does the other thing pay?”

“Selfishness?”

“Yes.  I’m selfish, and Oscar is, and Flora, and George Dalton, and most of the people we know.  And we are all bored to death.  If being unselfish is interesting, why not let us be unselfish?” Her lively glance seemed to challenge him, and they laughed together.

“I know what you mean.”

“Of course you do.  Everybody does who thinks.”

“And so you are going to wait for the next plane to do the things that you want to do?”