As to the nature of Selden’s growing kindness, Gerty would no more have dared to define it than she would have tried to learn a butterfly’s colours by knocking the dust from its wings. To seize on the wonder would be to brush off its bloom, and perhaps see it fade and stiffen in her hand: better the sense of beauty palpitating out of reach, while she held her breath and watched where it would alight. Yet Selden’s manner at the Brys’ had brought the flutter of wings so close that they seemed to be beating in her own heart. She had never seen him so alert, so responsive, so attentive to what she had to say. His habitual manner had an absent-minded kindliness which she accepted, and was grateful for, as the liveliest sentiment her presence was likely to inspire; but she was quick to feel in him a change implying that for once she could give pleasure as well as receive it. And it was so delightful that this higher degree of sympathy should be reached through their interest in Lily Bart! Gerty’s affection for her friend—a sentiment that had learned to keep itself alive on the scantiest diet—had grown to active adoration since Lily’s restless curiosity had drawn her into the circle of Miss Farish’s work. Lily’s taste of beneficence had wakened in her a momentary appetite for well-doing. Her visit to the Girls’ Club had first brought her in contact with the dramatic contrasts of life. She had always accepted with philosophic calm the fact that such existences as hers were pedestalled on foundations of obscure humanity. The dreary limbo of dinginess lay all around and beneath that little illuminated circle in which life reached its finest efflorescence, as the mud and sleet of a winter night enclose a hot-house filled with tropical flowers. All this was in the natural order of things, and the orchid basking in its artificially created atmosphere could round the delicate curves of its petals undisturbed by the ice on the panes.