"
"You've been thinking," Joan accused her. "What's put all that into your
head?"
Madge laughed. "Mixing with so many brainy people, perhaps," she
suggested; "and wondering what's become of their souls."
"Be good, sweet child. And let who can be clever," Joan quoted. "Would
that be your text?"
Madge finished buttering her buns. "Kant, wasn't it," she answered, "who
marvelled chiefly at two things: the starry firmament above him and the
moral law within him. And they're one and the same, if he'd only thought
it out. It's rather big to be good."
They carried their tea into the sitting-room.
"Do you really think she'll get over it?" asked Madge. "Or is it one of
those things one has to say?"
"I think she could," answered Joan, "if she would pull herself together.
It's her lack of will-power that's the trouble."
Madge did not reply immediately. She was watching the rooks settling
down for the night in the elm trees just beyond the window. There seemed
to be much need of coming and going, of much cawing.
"I met her pretty often during those months that Helen Lavery was running
her round," she said at length.
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