"All?" she repeats. "What else is there? It seems a great deal."
He does not answer, but he thinks of the women he knows, the idle women who are always restless and discontented unless they are deep in some excitement, riding, driving, ball and theater going; and as he thinks of the difference between their lives and this girl's, there rises in his breast a longing to brighten her life if only for a few hours a day.
"Well," he says, "it sounds rather slow. And—and have you led this kind of life long?"
"As long as I can remember," replies Leslie. "Papa and I have been alone together ever since I was a little mite, and—yes, it has always been the same."
"And you never go to a theater, a dance, a concert?"
Leslie laughs softly.
"Never is a big word," she says. "Oh, yes, when we are in London my father sometimes but very seldom takes me to a theater, and now and again there are dances at the boarding houses we stay at."
Yorke almost groans. How delightful it would be to take this beautiful young creature for a whole round of theaters, to see her dressed in full war paint, to watch those dark gray eyes light up with pleasant and girlish joy.
"And which are you most fond of?" he asks. "Walking, sailing, playing, reading?"
She thinks again.