They stopped and faced each other in the path; her eyes glowered, but his were twinkling though his mouth was grave. "If you're talking at me, Joan," he said solemnly, "then you may spare your breath, because you see I know I'm right; I know that even if Elizabeth is splendid and self-sacrificing and all the rest of it, she's dead wrong to waste it on that little dried up brother of hers. She ought to get out and do something for the world at large, or if she can't rise to that then she ought to do something for herself. I think it's a sin to let yourself get drained dry by anyone, I don't care who it is; that wasn't the sort of thing God gave us our brains for; it wasn't why He made us individuals."
Joan interrupted him: "But Elizabeth isn't drained dry; she's the cleverest woman I know."
"Yes, now, perhaps."
"She always will be," said Joan coldly.
He felt that he had gone too far; he didn't want to quarrel with her.
"I'm sorry," he said humbly. "It's my fault, I suppose. I mean I daresay I'm selfish and self-opinionated, and perhaps I'm not such great shakes, after all. Anyhow, you know I'm awfully fond of Elizabeth."
Joan was pacified. "One does get fond of her," she told him. "She's so calm and neat and masterful, so certain of herself and yet so awfully kind."
He changed the subject. "I'm swatting at Cambridge," he announced.
"Are you?"
He heard the interest in her voice and wondered why his casual remark had aroused it.