too easily discouraged, too courteous, if that is possible—­because diffidence, and discouragement, and even courtesy, are not always unselfish things.  If one renounces anything one has set one’s heart upon one must do so for its own sake, and not only because the disapproval and disappointment of others makes life uncomfortable.  I think that your life has tended to make you value an atmosphere of diffused tranquillity too much.  If one is sensitive to the censure or the displeasure of others, it may not be unselfish to give up things rather than provoke it—­it may only be another form of selfishness.  Some of the most unworldly people I know have not overcome the world at all; they have merely made terms with it, and have found that abnegation is only more comfortable than conquest.  I do not know that you are doing this, or have done it, but I think it likely.  And in any case I think you trust reason too much, and instinct too little.  If one desires a thing very much, it is often a proof that one needs it.  One may not indeed be able to get it, but to resign it is sometimes to fail in courage.  I can see that you are in some way discontented with your life.  Don’t try to mend it by a polite withdrawal.  I am going to pay you a compliment.  You have a wonderful charm, of which you are unconscious.  It has made life very easy for you—­but it has responsibilities too.  You must not create a situation, and then abandon it.  You must not disappoint people.  I know, of course, only too well, that charm in itself largely depends on a tranquil mind; and it is difficult to exercise it when one is sad and unhappy; but let me say that unhappiness does not deprive you of this power.  Does it seem impossible to you to believe that I have loved you far better, and in a way which I could not have thought possible, in these last weeks, when I have seen you were unhappy?  You do not abandon yourself to depression; you make an effort; you recognise other people’s rights to be happy, not to be clouded by your own unhappiness; and you have done more to attach us all to you in these days than before, when you were perhaps more conscious of being liked.  Liking is not loving, Howard.  There is no pain about liking; there is infinite pain about loving; that is because it is life, and not mere existence.”

“Ah,” said Howard, “I am indeed grateful to you for speaking to me thus—­you have lifted my spirit a little out of the mire.  But I can’t be rescued so easily.  I shall have a burden to bear for some time yet—­I see no end to it at present:  and it is indeed my own foolish trifling with life that has brought it on me.  But, dearest aunt, you can’t help me just now.  Let me be silent a little longer.  I shall soon, I think, be able to speak, and then I will tell you all; and meanwhile it will be a comfort to me to think that you feel for me and about me as you do.  I don’t want to indulge in self-pity—­I have not done that.  There is nothing unjust in what has happened to me, nothing intolerable, no specific ill-will.  I have just stumbled upon one of the big troubles of life, suddenly and unexpectedly, and I am not prepared for it by any practice or discipline.  But I shall get through, don’t be afraid—­and presently I will tell you everything.”  He took his aunt’s hand in his own, and kissed her on the cheek.