His philosophy was but the bent or inclination of a mind with a capacity to feel things rather than to think them.

He had feeling, the first essential of the philosopher, but there he stayed, an undeveloped chrysalis.
His look was abstracted still as he took the hand of the widow of Palass Poucette; but he spoke cheerfully.

"It is a pleasure, madame, to welcome you among my friends," he said.
He made a little flourish with the book which had so long been his bosom friend, and added: "But I hope you are in no trouble that you come to me--so many come to me in their troubles," he continued with an air of satisfaction.
"Come to you--why, you have enough troubles of your own!" she made answer.

"It's because you have your own troubles that I'm here." "Why you are here," he remarked vaguely.
There was something very direct and childlike in Virginie Poucette.

She could not pretend; she wore her heart on her sleeve.