"Bottled?" she queried.
"Don't you get all cramped up and fuggy, like one does when one sits over a fire all day. I know what I mean, it sounds all rot, only it isn't rot. You look out! I have a presentiment that they mean to bottle you."
Joan laughed.
"It's no laughing matter," he said in an impressive voice. "It's no laughing matter to be bottled; they want to bottle me, only I don't mean to let them."
"Why, what do you want to do that makes them want to bottle you?"
"I'm going in for medicine—Father hates it; he hopes I'll get sick of it, but it's my line, I know it; I'm studying to be a doctor."
"Well, why not? It's rather jolly to be a doctor, I should think; someone's got to look after people when they're ill."
"That's just it. I'm keen as mustard on it, and I shan't let anyone stop me."
"But what's that got to do with me?"
"Nothing, not the doctor part, but the other part has; if you're clever, you ought to do something."