"That's it, is it?" he asked, with a relish she was glad to see. "A slacker! so be it. If I'm a slacker, I am. I'm a conscientious objector. What I object to is the universe, the pattern it's made on. I object to the way we're running it, and, being made as we are, I don't see how we can be expected to do anything but what we're doing. It's a perfectly logical proposition. And except for a few minor chores I've got to see to, I simply won't play."
Nan was thinking. She looked down at her hands, lying in her lap. Raven looked at them also and wondered, as he often had, since they came home, how such hands could have done the tasks she set them to. She looked up and met his eyes gravely with something imperative in hers. It is a way women have sometimes. They seem to be calling on the boy in man and bidding him take heed.
"I wouldn't," said she, "talk to Dick about going to Wake Hill."
"What would you do? Cut stick, and let him wonder what in the deuce it's all about?"
"I wouldn't talk; I'd write."
"Oh, write!—what's the difference?"
"If you talk, he'll say something that'll shut you up and you'll be just as far apart as you are to-day. If you write, you can tell him as much as you want to and no more. And the first thing he'll do will be to bring the letter to me."
"I see," said Raven. "And you'll interpret."
"I'll interpret. I can, Rookie. I know you, don't I? and I know Dick."
"You ought to," said Raven rashly again because he was again curious, "the man you're going to marry."