“Not all of them by any means, the idiots,” she replied. “But Rose—yes. Rose ought to have all she wants. I advised her to. It’s—no don’t interrupt me—it’s your own doing very largely. You brought her up to be happy and true to herself. She saw you always at work ministering to other people—Oh! I know you were paid for it—I’ve paid you myself—money thrown away too, for I only get worse—but that doesn’t matter: you’re a soft old thing at heart. Anyway, there was Rose, the apple of your eye, with a natural sweet disposition, and the centre of your circle of friends, and the mistress of your easy-going prosperous house, and she gets into kindly humane habits. Then she marries this refrigerator K.C., or whatever he is, and begins to miss everything that she had been used to. He’s a stupid fellow—he hasn’t even the sense to be ill and touch her heart that way—he can’t lose his temper—can’t swear—only be politely rasping now and then—and he gradually wore her down, diluted her sweetness, crushed her nice impulses, made her live according to Cocker.” Wonderful, I thought, what a lot the old lady had divined, for I’m sure Rose never told her in words. “There was no doubt about his selfishness,” I said. “As for selfishness,” said Mrs. O’Gorman, “I don’t mind that. That hasn’t necessarily anything to do with it. All the most attractive men are selfish, even if the most selfish men are not the most attractive.” “I wonder if that’s true,” I said. “Think about the unselfish men you know and you’ll soon realize its truth,” she replied. “Unselfish men don’t give us any fun at all—I’m talking as a woman, remember—they make it too easy. The selfish ones keep us thinking, and when they forget themselves it’s delicious: I mean, it used to be.” She sighed and laughed. “But it’s about Rose we’re talking,” she continued. “Having got rid for a while of her husband, she comes down here and finds that poor boy, her old friend, ill and miserable, and all the love she ought to have felt for him years ago suddenly materialized, but a million times stronger, and there you are. ‘Bolt, my lamb,’ that’s what I said to her, although she never asked for my advice. ‘Bolt, my lamb, and be happy while you can.’” “Well, I’m—” I began. “Say it,” she said. “Say you’re damned. Nobody minds. But you’re not so damned as that poor child would have been if she’d gone back to the Arctic Zone. I’m old enough to believe that the whole purpose of unhappy people’s lives is not endurance. I’ve seen too much of it. And so has every one, especially you doctors. Endurance? No. Let revolt and escape have a chance too. That is, if people really want them. The trouble is that really wanting things is so rare. It’s a lukewarm world!” “Anyway,” I said, “I’m amazed that you could dare to advise anything so revolutionary to Rose. It’s a terrible responsibility.”