"It really vexes me," observed Zenobia, as we left the room, "that Mr.
Hollingsworth should be such a laggard. I should not have thought
him at all the sort of person to be turned back by a puff of contrary
wind, or a few snowflakes drifting into his face."
"Do you know Hollingsworth personally?" I inquired.
"No; only as an auditor--auditress, I mean--of some of his lectures,"
said she. "What a voice he has! and what a man he is! Yet not so
much an intellectual man, I should say, as a great heart; at least,
he moved me more deeply than I think myself capable of being moved,
except by the stroke of a true, strong heart against my own. It is a
sad pity that he should have devoted his glorious powers to such a
grimy, unbeautiful, and positively hopeless object as this
reformation of criminals, about which he makes himself and his
wretchedly small audiences so very miserable. To tell you a secret,
I never could tolerate a philanthropist before. Could you?"
"By no means," I answered; "neither can I now."
"They are, indeed, an odiously disagreeable set of mortals,"
continued Zenobia. "I should like Mr. Hollingsworth a great deal
better if the philanthropy had been left out. At all events, as a
mere matter of taste, I wish he would let the bad people alone, and
try to benefit those who are not already past his help. Do you
suppose he will be content to spend his life, or even a few months of
it, among tolerably virtuous and comfortable individuals like
ourselves?"
"Upon my word, I doubt it," said I.
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