“I n-never thought of that before.  Of course you’re right—­I ought to have thought of it—­even from the point of view of a psychologist.”

“I don’t think it’s anything to do with any ’ologists at all.  It’s just common sense.  Louis, I’ve been thinking a lot this week.  You know, when father used to get—­ill—­no, drunk (Why should I be afraid to tell the truth, in spite of your sneers about poor father?) I was too wee to know very much.  But knowing him as I do, I’m certain he tried and tried again.  After mother died he left whisky alone, though he still had it in the house.  He took to reading philosophy instead.  You see, he was not like you.  There was a hardness, a bravery in him that you haven’t got.  You have cussedness instead and cussedness is a thing you can never be sure of.  You see,” she went on, flushing a little, and suddenly tossing her head proudly, “you don’t understand this, and it may sound most appalling snobbishness to you.  But my father’s people have always been rulers—­little kings—­fighters, while yours have been just ordinary, protected folk.  My people have had to fight for everything, even their food, their lands, their home.  Yours have had shops and investments and policemen round every corner—­there is a difference—­Louis, am I offending you?” she asked anxiously.

“Go on!” he said hoarsely.

“Well, father tried.  But trying wasn’t any use.  He read philosophy to get himself interested in something.  But philosophy wasn’t gripping enough.  It seems we’ve all got to find something to anchor on, and it’s different for almost everyone.  That’s where we can help each other by trying to understand each other’s needs and offering suggestions.  Like sailors do—­with charts and things.  All this philosophy of father’s!  It reminds me of a horse I saw once at Carlossie Fair.  It had a most horrible ulcer on its shoulder and they’d tried to hide it up by plaiting its mane and tying it with a great heap of ribbons.  That doesn’t cure anything!  You know there’s a phrase we use often about people who are miserable—­we say, ’Oh, he needs to be taken out of himself.’  Isn’t that a vivid way of putting it, if you stop to think?”

He nodded, and still stared fascinated at her, drinking in every slow, halting word.

“I suppose father brooded just like you do.  He used to get very grumpy, and very, very unhappy.  He begged and pleaded with me for understanding, and I couldn’t give it to him.  Then one day he got dreadfully drunk, after a whole year away from it.  And mother’s cousin came.  He talked to father for five or six hours while Aunt and I kept shivering and thinking father would murder him.  Our people usually do murder people who annoy them.  But Cousin came out of the room and said, ’Andrew has cast his burden on the Lord.’  He said it as if he was saying, ’Andrew has sneezed, or put some coal on the fire’—­the most ordinary way you can imagine.  And that was the end of whisky for father.  After that he tried to make everyone he knew cast their burden on the Lord.  I rather felt like laughing at the time.  It seemed rather silly, and just a bit vulgar—­most religion is, isn’t it?  But since I’ve been worrying myself to death about you I’ve understood all about poor father.”