"What sort of things?" "Principally morals and—lack of morals.... Not long ago I had everything neatly labeled and pigeon-holed in my mind. Things were either good or bad. People the same. Now all the labels seem to have come off.... Really, I’m not half so good as poor Mrs. Lambert was, and yet she did what I always considered so wrong. She lived with Lord Chalfont. The strange thing is it didn’t make either of them bad. They were just like two married people who had the deepest respect for each other." Maggy gave a nod of comprehension. "And that puzzles you?" she asked. "Yes, in a way." "I think I know why. You’re asking yourself whether that sort of thing is really bad, after all, since it didn’t drag them down. You’ve got the labels wrong, mixing up morals with people and putting them all together in the honey-pot. The stage, I mean. It’s a contaminating place, right enough. The wonder is how anybody gets out of it clean. Some people can drink filthy water and keep healthy, and others get typhoid from it. It doesn’t alter the water. What makes me sorry is that nice people like Mrs. Lambert and Lord Chalfont and you should have to drink it at all. The worst of it is you can’t tell whether it’s done you any harm until it’s worked right into your system, and then you’re generally past help. That rather proves that immorality is a sort of disease, probably a microbe, which thrives especially on the stage. What a pity they can’t vaccinate us against it when we’re babies. It would have done _me_ good. _I’m_ an example of the corruption of the stage, if you’re looking for one." "You’re nothing of the kind, Maggy!"