“So simple and happy and contented!” Miss Thriplow went on. “One envies them their lives.” She could almost have wept over the little shovel—momentarily the masonic emblem of prelapsarian ingenuousness. “We make everything so unnecessarily complicated for ourselves, don’t we?” “Do we?” said Mr. Cardan. “These people have no doubts, or after-thoughts,” pursued Miss Thriplow, “or—what’s worse than after-thoughts—simultaneous-thoughts. They know what they want and what’s right; they feel just what they ought to feel by nature—like the heroes in the _Iliad_—and act accordingly. And the result is, I believe, that they’re much better than we are, much gooder, we used to say when we were children; the word’s more expressive. Yes, much gooder. Now you’re laughing at me!” Mr. Cardan twinkled at her with benevolent irony. “I assure you I’m not,” he declared. “But I shouldn’t mind if you were,” said Miss Thriplow. “For after all, in spite of all that you people may say or think, it’s the only thing that matters—being good.” “I entirely agree,” said Mr. Cardan. “And it’s easier if you’re like that.” She nodded in the direction of the white apron. Mr. Cardan nodded, a little dubiously. “Sometimes,” Miss Thriplow continued, with a gush of confidence that made her words come more rapidly, “sometimes, when I get on a bus and take my ticket from the conductor, I suddenly feel the tears come into my eyes at the thought of this life, so simple and straightforward, so easy to live well, even if it is a hard one—and perhaps, too, just because it is a hard one. Ours is so difficult.” She shook her head. By this time they were within a few yards of the shopkeeper, who, seeing that they were proposing to enter his shop, rose from his seat at the door and darted in to take up his stand, professionally, behind the counter. They followed him into the shop. It was dark within and filled with a violent smell of goat’s milk cheese, pickled tunny, tomato preserve and highly flavoured sausage. “Whee-ew!” said Miss Thriplow, and pulling out a small handkerchief, she took refuge with the ghost of Parma violets. It was a pity that these simple lives in white aprons had to be passed amid such surroundings. “Rather deafening, eh?” said Mr. Cardan, twinkling. “Puzza,” he added, turning to the shopkeeper. “It stinks.” The man looked at Miss Thriplow, who stood there, her nose in the oasis of her handkerchief, and smiled indulgently. “I forestieri sono troppo delicati. Troppo delicati,” he repeated.