"It is generally considered a great blessing to have a rich father," said Marriott.
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "it is. I've heard that very word used--in church, too. But with Dick"--she went back to the personal aspect of the question, which seemed easier--"what is his life? Last summer, up at the island, it was the yacht--with a hired skipper to do the real work. This summer it's the touring-car; it's always some sensation, something physical, something to kill time with--and what kind of conception of life is that?"
She turned and looked at him with' a little arch of triumph in her brows, at having attained this expression of her thought.
"We all have a conception of life that is more or less confused," Marriott generalized. "That is, when we have any conception at all."
"Of course," said Elizabeth, "I presume Dick's conception is as good as mine; and that his life is quite as useful. My life has been every bit as objective--I have a round of little duties--teas and balls and parties, and all that sort of thing, of course. I've been sheltered, like all girls of my class; but poor Dick--he's exposed, that is the difference."
She was silent for a while. Marriott had not known before how deep her thought had gone.
"I'm utterly useless in the world," she went on, "and I'm sick of it! Sick of it!" She had grown vehement, and her little fists clenched in her lap, until the knuckles showed white.
"Do you know what I've a notion of doing?" she said.
"No; what?"
"I've a notion to go and work in a factory, say half a day, and give some poor girl a half-holiday."