The question, to him so oddly reminiscent of the perplexities of a bygone age, nearly made him laugh, but his amusement was wholly tender.
“I don’t believe in a special vocation straight from Heaven for each one of us,” he admitted. “You know, I never can believe that Heaven takes that acute personal interest in individuals that religious people always emphasize when they’re talking about themselves. But, of course, there are certain lines of development——”
“I think,” Val said seriously, “that I should like to feel I had a definite job in life, that no one but myself could do. I feel so—indefinite.”
“I believe I might enlighten you on that subject,” Owen replied in measured accents.
“I don’t mean Sales of Work or a botanical collection, Owen.”
“I know you don’t. The sales of work and the collections were never a means of self-expression, were they?”
“They did stand for something, though.”
“For your wish to please somebody else?”
“The wish is still there, Owen.”
“Val, you know I think self-abnegation is all wrong.”