"Perhaps."
"With this glorious sea and sky, and here where worldly cares cannot touch us, we should never have moods."
"I am pleased that worldly cares cannot touch you. They do me."
"Oh, I am sorry. Would it be inquisitive to ask if anything very wrong has happened?"
He was silent while he let the little hoard of pebbles slowly drop, one by one, through his fingers. "You see," he said, "I happened to have a very disturbing letter this morning. I suppose it isn't philosophical to let such things irritate me, but they always do. The family fortunes depend upon me, I am told."
"I should imagine they ought," returned Gwen a little severely.
He looked at her quickly. "Darn the family fortunes!" he said fiercely.
"Darn them if you will," retorted Gwen calmly, "but mend them in some way, if they need mending."
He laughed, a boyish laugh, then became serious. "But you see," he said, "in my opinion they aren't so much frayed and worn as some persons imagine. They may not be in the very latest cut, but they do pretty well except for such things as court receptions and so on. I have relinquished my share in them, at all events, and am content to be a thing of rags and patches myself for the sake of wielding a free lance. But it seems that is not enough. I must give up all I love best, and follow a career that I detest. The parting of the ways has been reached and I must decide."
"At once?"