“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.
“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?”
“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”
“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”
“Eh—?”
“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.”
George’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well.
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first.”
“What do you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?”
“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday—”
“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so