They were joined by the doctor, who had caught a part of what Constance said, and divined the rest. “You see only the pathos. Joyce is just as well off here as he would be anywhere else, and perhaps a little better. He makes a decent living with his pictures.” As he spoke he crossed the porch and stood at her side, with his hand resting affectionately on her shoulder. “I guess there's a larger justice in the world than we conceive,” said Oakley. “But not to know, to go on blindly doing something that is really very dreadful, and never to know!” She turned to Oakley. “I am afraid I rather agree with your father. He seems happy enough, and he is doing work for which there is a demand.” “Would you be content to live here with no greater opportunity than he has?” Oakley laughed and shook his head. “No. But that's not the same. I'll pull the Huckleberry up and make it pay, and then go in for something bigger.” “And if you can't make it pay?” “I won't bother with it, then.” “But if you had to remain?” Oakley gave her an incredulous smile. “That couldn't be possible. I have done all sorts of things but stick in what I found to be undesirable berths; but, of course, business is not at all the same.” “But isn't it? Look at Mr. Ryder. He says that he is buried here in the pine-woods, with no hope of ever getting back into the world, and I am sure he is able, and journalism is certainly a business, like anything else.” Oakley made no response to this. He didn't propose to criticise Ryder, but, all the same, he doubted his ability. “Griff's frightfully lazy,” remarked the doctor. “He prefers to settle down to an effortless sort of an existence rather than make a struggle.” “Don't you think Mr. Ryder extremely clever, Mr. Oakley?” “I know him so slightly, Miss Emory; but no doubt he is.” Mrs. Emory appeared in the doorway, placid and smiling. “Constance, you and Mr. Oakley come on in; dinner's ready.” When Dan went home that night he told himself savagely that he would never go to the Emorys' again. The experience had been most unsatisfactory. In spite of Constance's evident disposition towards tolerance where he was concerned, she exasperated him. Her unconscious condescension was a bitter memory of which he could not rid himself. Certainly women must be petty, small-souled creatures if she was at all representative of her sex. Yet, in spite of his determination to avoid Constance, even at the risk of seeming rude, he found it required greater strength of will than he possessed to keep away from the Emorys. He realized, in the course of the next few weeks, that a new stage in his development had been reached. Inspired by what he felt was a false but beautiful confidence in himself, he called often, and, as time wore on, the frequency of these calls steadily increased. All this while he thought about Miss Emory a great deal, and was sorry for her or admired her, according to his mood.