"I am. This is child's play; compared with the parish of St. Timothy's.
And it's lots more fun!"
"You're an ascetic!"
"Never. No crusts and water for me—coffee and flapjacks every time."
Once more she bent toward him. "You are an ascetic. To live in this place, and wear—What are you wearing? Old clothes and a—What on earth is that scarf pin? A ten-cent piece?"
He put up his hand. "Benson, the little old watchmaker on the corner, gave me that. No, it's not a dime. It pleases him immensely to see me wear it. It's not bad, Sue. Nonsense!"
"It's not good—cheap!"
He sat smiling up at her, while she regarded him in silence for a minute.
Then she broke out again:
"Why—why do you do it? Haven't you worked hard enough in your great parish, without allowing yourself to spoil this rest you so much need?"
"Sue," said her brother, "the best cure for certain kinds of overwork is merely more work, only of a different sort. I can't be idle and contented. Can you?"
"Idle! I should like to be idle. I'm rushed to death, all the time. It's killing me."