CHAPTER XI

THE WOUNDS OF A FRIEND

Those who have been friendly enough to follow me so far in my little
story will scarcely push their friendship so far that they will refrain
from criticism upon myself and my doings. On one point, viz. the
social morality of my conduct, I am so sure of criticism that I will
anticipate it with self-criticism. Had I the moral right to desert the
city, and to ignore the social obligations of the city, in order to
find a life that was more pleasurable to myself? A city which presents
a depressing variety of social needs can hardly afford to spare any
good citizen, however humble, who is capable of social service, and for
such a citizen to contract himself out of his obligations is very like
skulking. I confess that this consideration occasioned me some
uneasiness, and the questions which it raised have been treated with
such admirable lucidity by a friend of mine, who still resides in
London, that I will let him put the case against me.

The friend of whom I speak belongs to that class which may be roughly
described as Earnest Good People. With very small means, and not much
spare time at his disposal, he is nevertheless constantly engaged in
what is called the work of Social Amelioration. The problems of city
squalor, vice, and ignorance haunt him like a nightmare. When a very
young man he made a voyage of discovery among the submerged tenth; got
acquainted with tramps, night strollers, and wastrels on the Thames
Embankment; slept in doss-houses and Salvation Army shelters; tried his
hand on experimental philanthropy among the slums; and was driven
half-frantic by what he saw. He has the makings of a saint in him; of