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. Presently she said: "I want to talk to you about Lawrence." "Fire away! You don't mean to tell me that Lawrence has been sowing anything like wild oats? Your voice sounds so serious." "No, of course not, you goose; can you see Lawrence knee-deep in a field of anything but--well--the very best Patna rice?" They laughed. "No, it's very far from wild oats--I think he's fallen in love with Elizabeth." "With Elizabeth? But, good Lord! Lawrence hates clever women!"