She opened the book and proceeded to read. Her listener sat with hands behind his head and Gwen hoped he was impressed, for she read well. "What do you think of it?" she asked as she closed the book.
"Well, I can't make out exactly what he's driving at. I'm not a great one for poetry. Once in a while you come across some rattling good thing like 'Hans Breitmann's Party,' something that makes you laugh. I don't mind that sort of poetry."
Gwen slipped the book behind her. "What do you like to read, Mr. Mitchell?"
"Oh, I don't have much time to do more than run through the newspapers, or a magazine sometimes when I'm on a train."
"But I thought all Bostonians were very intellectual." There was disappointment in Gwen's tones at discovery of his especial taste in literature. She had thought he might declare himself for history, at least.
"Well, I suppose a good many Boston folks are intellectual. I don't profess to be. Life's too short to spend over books. I enjoy this free life," he stretched out his arms bared to the shoulders, "and I like tennis and golf and that sort of thing, for exercise. I enjoy a nice light opera with a lot of pretty girls in the chorus, or a good play, not too tragic a one. I'm pretty fond of a horse and a boat. I shall have a yacht up here next year, I think."
"A yacht would be lovely," said Gwen brightening. "You could go cruising all around among the islands."
"Yes, and up the coast to Bar Harbor. Yes, a yacht would be jolly good fun."
"Shall you be glad to get back to the city, or do you feel as if you would like to stay up here forever living the free life?" queried Gwen.
"Not forever. Nobody would care to do that who'd ever lived in a city, unless it were some queer freak like Mr. Williams."