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you know what’s good for me—or whether you care.’
‘If I know depend upon it I care. Shall I tell you what it is?
Not to torment yourself.’
‘Not to torment you, I suppose you mean.’
‘You can’t do that; I’m proof. Take things more easily.
Don’t ask yourself so much whether this or that is good for
you. Don’t question your conscience so much—it will get
out of tune like a strummed piano. Keep it for great occa-
sions. Don’t try so much to form your character—it’s like
trying to pull open a tight, tender young rose. Live as you
like best, and your character will take care of itself. Most
things are good for you; the exceptions are very rare, and a
comfortable income’s not one of them.’ Ralph paused, smil-
ing; Isabel had listened quickly. ‘You’ve too much power of
thoughtabove all too much conscience,’ Ralph added. ‘It’s
out of all reason, the number of things you think wrong. Put
back your watch. Diet your fever. Spread your wings; rise
above the ground. It’s never wrong to do that.’
She had listened eagerly, as I say; and it was her nature
to understand quickly. ‘I wonder if you appreciate what you
say. If you do, you take a great responsibility.’
‘You frighten me a little, but I think I’m right,’ said Ralph,
persisting in cheer.
‘All the same what you say is very true,’ Isabel pursued.
‘You could say nothing more true. I’m absorbed in myself—I
look at life too much as a doctor’s prescription. Why indeed
should we perpetually be thinking whether things are good
for us, as if we were patients lying in a hospital? Why should
I be so afraid of not doing right? As if it mattered to the

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