They were walking down a path toward the lake. Mary did not ask what he meant. But he insisted.
"I don't mind a man drinking anything in reason. But I think Laurence is getting to depend too much on it—he has to key himself up to his work. That wonderful natural energy seems to be failing him."
Still she was silent, and Lavery turned to her.
"Why don't you do something about it?" he asked abruptly.
"Nothing that any one could say would make any difference to Laurence," said Mary coldly. "He has always done exactly as he chose, and he always will."
"Oh, has he?" murmured Lavery. "It strikes me he would be more apt to do what you wanted him to."
Mary laughed. "What I wanted!" She turned angrily on Lavery. "You know that isn't true!"
At the same time she was amazed at herself—speaking like this, of Laurence and herself, to a stranger. And the reckless other self over-ruled this protest—it could speak to this man and it would.
"You know I never interfere in Laurence's life. He lives as he chooses."
"He lives the way he has to, I guess," said Lavery meditatively, "I don't know that there's much choice about it."