or skiing trips. When
they were gone he would revile himself for his stubbornness and ache
because Claire could not see that he had refused with a petulant boy's
hope that she would stay with him. "Why should she stay with me?" There
was no reason, he told himself, and again he would be off on a mental
whirlwind that carried him still farther from reason. He became
perpetually sullen, irritable, and discontented. He realized it, thought
that Claire would certainly grow to dislike him if he continued so
disagreeable, and with the thought became even more disagreeable.

Claire, however, was not growing to dislike him. She avoided him in
pursuance of her settled policy, but she thought of him all the more.

One morning when she and Philip were out in the pines together, she
observed, casually, "Lawrence doesn't seem to be doing any work these
days."

Philip glanced at her carelessly. "Yes. I'm very sorry for the poor
fellow."

His pity angered her a little. Lawrence did not need his sympathy. "I
think he must be feeling badly," she replied.

"I believe he is moody by nature."

"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