“I believe he would mind that less,” said she.
Martin swung the canoe round a half-submerged tree-trunk, where the water sucked and gurgled.
“But how unreasonable,” he cried. “Frank can’t help his want of belief. But we can all, in some degree, help making brutes of ourselves.”
Helen sat up suddenly, causing the boat to rock.
“I can’t live my life on other people’s lines,” she said, “any more than I expect others to live theirs on my lines. ‘I am I.’ I remember Frank quoting that to me the Sunday he walked back with me from Chartries. That has been like leaven; it has fermented and expanded within me. But, after all, is it only another way of saying ‘I shall be as selfish as I please’?”
“Of course not. That is what people think who haven’t got any individuality of their own. Lots of people haven’t. They are like mirrors slightly cracked, which reflect with certain dimnesses and distortions what is put opposite them. They say individuality is selfishness. What bosh!”
“Aunt Susan hasn’t got any,” remarked Helen, letting the conversation drift away a little. “It is that which makes her so restful. Her mind is like a cushion. It is quite soft, and if you lean on it you make great dents in it.”
Martin remained quite serious, staring at the water with vacant black eyes.
“Poor father!” he said at length. “Just think; you and me, Helen. He must find us awfully trying.”
“I know; and he continues to love us so. It is that which makes it so dreadful. Oh, Martin, do get through your stupid examination. Do turn out satisfactory, as I’ve been so eminently the reverse.”