“But you cannot do away with distinctions?”

“I suppose not, so long as so many people are born vicious, or incompetent, or lazy.  But, Mr. Lyon, how much good do you suppose condescending charity does?” asked Margaret, firing up in a way the girl had at times.  “I mean the sort that makes the distinctions more evident.  The very fact that you have leisure to meddle in their affairs may be an annoyance to the folks you try to help by the little palliatives of charity.  What effect upon a wretched city neighborhood do you suppose is produced by the advent in it of a stylish carriage and a lady in silk, or even the coming of a well-dressed, prosperous woman in a horse-car, however gentle and unassuming she may be in this distribution of sympathy and bounty?  Isn’t the feeling of inequality intensified?  And the degrading part of it may be that so many are willing to accept this sort of bounty.  And your men of leisure, your club men, sitting in the windows and seeing the world go by as a spectacle-men who never did an hour’s necessary work in their lives—­what effect do you suppose the sight of them has upon men out of work, perhaps by their own fault, owing to the same disposition to be idle that the men in the club windows have?”

“And do you think it would be any better if all were poor alike?”

“I think it would be better if there were no idle people.  I’m half ashamed that I have leisure to go every time I go to that mission.  And I’m almost sorry, Mr. Lyon, that I took you there.  The boys knew you were English.  One of them asked me if you were a ‘lord’ or a ‘juke’ or something.  I cannot tell how they will take it.  They may resent the spying into their world of an ‘English juke,’ and they may take it in the light of a show.”

Mr. Lyon laughed.  And then, perhaps after a little reflection upon the possibility that the nobility was becoming a show in this world, he said: 

“I begin to think I’m very unfortunate, Miss Debree.  You seem to remind me that I am in a position in which I can do very little to help the world along.”

“Not at all.  You can do very much.”

“But how, when whatever I attempt is considered a condescension?  What can I do?”

“Pardon me,” and Margaret turned her eyes frankly upon him.  “You can be a good earl when your time comes.”

Their way lay through the little city park.  It is a pretty place in summer—­a varied surface, well planted with forest and ornamental trees, intersected by a winding stream.  The little river was full now, and ice had formed on it, with small openings here and there, where the dark water, hurrying along as if in fear of arrest, had a more chilling aspect than the icy cover.  The ground was white with snow, and all the trees were bare except for a few frozen oak-leaves here and there, which shivered in the wind and somehow added to the desolation.  Leaden clouds covered the sky, and only in the west was there a gleam of the departing winter day.