"A hat," Allan protested, "is of no avail against hay fever. It's the most insidious thing in the world, and is no respecter of youth. You, my dear Isobel, might be its first victim."
"Pooh! I catch nothing!" she declared, "and you mustn't either. I'm sure you ought to be able to paint some beautiful pictures down here, Allan. And, Arnold, you shall have your writing-table out under the chestnut tree there. You will be so comfortable, and I'm sure you'll be able to finish your story splendidly."
"You are very anxious to dispose of us all here, Isobel," I remarked. "What do you propose to do yourself?"
"Oh, paint a little, I suppose," she answered, "and—think! There is so much to think about here."
I shook my head.
"I am beginning to wonder," I said, "whether we did wisely to bring you."
"And why?"
"This thinking you are speaking of. It is bad!"
"You are foolish! Why should I not want to think?"
"If you begin to think you will begin to doubt," I answered, "and if you begin to doubt you will begin to understand. The person who once understands, you know, is never again really happy."