"Oh, do you? I hadn't thought so," she objected.
"It is not strange," Philip went on; "he is so limited by his blindness and so ambitious that the effect is almost sure to be a disgruntled mind. He cannot hope to overcome his blindness, and he ought to realize it. I think that is the cause of his odd philosophy. He certainly would be happier if he could get a more sunlit view of things. He needs optimism, and he ought to practise it."
For a moment, Claire was silent. She was not willing to admit that Lawrence was unable to conquer blindness or even that his beliefs were altogether wrong. She had more often disagreed with him than not, but now for some reason she found herself desiring to support his convictions.
"I don't agree with you," she answered Philip, a little shortly.
"Well then, what is my lady's diagnosis?" He had not noticed her curt reply, for he was thinking of something else and was not really interested in Lawrence as a topic of conversation.
Claire was unable to answer; she disliked both his tone and his expression, but she had nothing to substitute for his explanation.
They walked on in silence for a few minutes through the trees before she ventured a little lamely, "I don't know what to say."
Philip looked up, smilingly. "To say about what, Claire?" Then he remembered, and continued hastily, "Oh, pardon me. I know, of course. About Lawrence. If I could suggest anything to do, I would. He is an interesting friend, but I have nothing to offer. It seems to me that we can do no more than to let him alone. He will work it out for himself. If he does not, we cannot help. He would not expect us to do so."
"That's no reason we shouldn't try," she flashed, "unless, of course, you quite agree with his argument after all."
Philip colored slightly and said, "I admit the fault, Claire, but what can we do?"