"You bet I will. And, Joan, do come over more often, now I'm home, then
we can talk."
"I will," she promised, and she meant it.
3
They had scarcely met for two years, for Richard had spent most of his
vacations abroad; there was little in common between him and his father.
His decision to take up medicine had shocked Mr. Benson, but he was a
just man in spite of the fact that he completely failed to understand
his younger son. He and Richard had thrashed things out, and it had been
decided that Richard's allowance should continue until he had taken his
medical degree, after which his father would make him a present of a
lump sum of money to do as he liked with, but this was to be final, and
Richard was well content. His self-confidence never failed. He talked
Joan over with his mother that evening.
"She's an awfully jolly girl," he said.
Mrs. Benson demurred at the adjective. "Jolly is hardly the way I should
express her," she replied. "I think she's a solemn young creature."
"No wonder," he said hotly. "Her life must be too awful; a mother who's
an hysteric, and a father----" He paused, finding no words adequate to
describe Colonel Ogden.
Mrs. Benson laughed. "Oh, Richard! You never change. Don Quixote tilting
at windmills--and yet you're probably right; the girl's life must be
rather hard, poor child. But there are thousands like her, my son."
"Millions," he corrected bitterly. "Millions all over England! They
begin by being so young and fine, like Joan perhaps; and, Mother, how do
they end?"
"But, Richard dear, I'm afraid it's the lot of women. A woman is only
complete when she finds a good husband, and those who don't find one are
never really happy. I don't believe work fulfils them; it takes children
to do that, my dear; that's nature, and you can't get beyond nature."
"No," he said. "You're mostly right, and yet they can't all find
husbands--and some of them don't want to," he added reflectively.
"Joan will marry," said Mrs. Benson. "She ought to let her hair grow."
He burst out laughing. "Bless you, you old darling," he exclaimed. "It's
what's inside the head that decides those things, not what's outside
it!"
She took his hand and stroked it. "I'm glad I had you," she said.
He stooped and kissed her cheek. "So am I," he told her. They wandered
into the garden, arm in arm.
"It's lovely here," he said. "But it's not for me, Mother; I don't think
lovely things were meant for me, so I must make the ugly ones beautiful
somehow."
"My dear, you've chosen an ugly profession; and yet the healing of the
sick is beautiful."
"I think so," he said simply.