"It teaches.

I'm learning to be a Sannyasin." Eight other cards were down, and I engrossed myself with them.
"Is a Sannyasin rather dull ?" "In the Bhagavad-gita," I answered, "he is to be known as a Sannyasin who does not hate and does not love anything." "How are you progressing ?" I felt her troubling eyes full upon me, and I suspected there was mockery in their depths.
"Oh, well, fairishly--but of course I haven't studied as faithfully as I might." "I should think you couldn't afford to be negligent." I played up the four of spades and put a king of hearts in the space thus happily secured.
"I have read," I answered absently, "that a benevolent man should allow himself a few faults to keep his friends in countenance.

I mustn't be everything perfect, you know." "Don't restrain yourself in the least on my account." "You are my sole trouble," I said, playing a black seven on a red eight.
She looked off the table as I glanced up at her.
I am a patient enough man, I believe, and I hope meek and lowly, but I saw suddenly that not all the beatitudes should be taken without reservation.
"I repeat," I said, for she had not spoken, "your presence is the most troubling thing I know.

It keeps me back in my studies." "There's a red five for that black six," she observed.
"Thank you!" and I made the play.
"Then you're not a Sannyasin yet ?" "I've nearly taken the first degree.

Sometimes after hard practice I can succeed in not hating anything for as much as an hour." I dealt eight more cards and became, to outward seeming, I hope, absorbed in the new aspect of the game.
"Perseverance will be rewarded," she said kindly.