bie--he's a fine boy now." Ralph observed,
with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now
going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on
to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected,
she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible to
discuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happiness
with Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan,
and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high
green dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He
began to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them,
for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quickly
following impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the
better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure
himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed
Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original,
and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression
of Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at
the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from
the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and
herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of
their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a
family, they were somehow remarkable.

"Shall you talk to mother?" Joan inquired. "Because, you see, the
thing's got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to
Uncle John if he's going there."

Ralph sighed impatiently.

"I suppose it doesn't much matter either way," he exclaimed. "He's
doomed to misery in the long run."

A slight flush came into Joan's cheek.

"You know you're talking nonsense," she said. "It doesn't hurt any one
to have to earn their own living. I'm very glad I have to earn mine."

Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue,
but he went on, perversely enough.

"Isn't that only because you've forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You
never have time for anything decent--"

"As for instance?"

"Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting
people. You never do anything that's really worth doing any more than I
do."

"I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked," she
observed.