Those Barren Leaves

We two,” said Mr. Cardan one late afternoon some fortnight after Chelifer’s arrival, “we two seem to be rather left out of it.”

“Left out of what?” asked Mr. Falx.

“Out of love,” said Mr. Cardan. He looked down over the balustrade. On the next terrace below, Chelifer and Mrs. Aldwinkle were walking slowly up and down. On the terrace below that strolled the diminished and foreshortened figures of Calamy and Miss Thriplow. “And the other two,” said Mr. Cardan, as if continuing aloud the enumeration which he and his companion had made in silence, with the eye alone, “your young pupil and the little niece, have gone for a walk in the hills. Can you ask what we’re left out of?”

Mr. Falx nodded. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I don’t much like the atmosphere of this house. Mrs. Aldwinkle’s an excellent woman, of course, in many respects. But...” he hesitated.

“Yes; but...” Mr. Cardan nodded. “I see your point.”

“I shall be rather glad when I have got young Hovenden away from here,” said Mr. Falx.

“If you get him alone I shall be surprised.”

Mr. Falx went on, shaking his head: “There’s a certain moral laxity, a certain self-indulgence ... I confess I don’t like this way of life. I may be prejudiced; but I don’t like it.”

“Every one has his favourite vice,” said Mr. Cardan. “You forget, Mr. Falx, that we probably don’t like your way of life.”

“I protest,” said Mr. Falx hotly. “Is it possible to compare my way of life with the way of life in this house? Here am I, working incessantly for a noble cause, devoting myself to the public good...”