"My what?" he gasped.
"Your work. What is your occupation?"
"Oh, you mean what I do for a living?" Puffing out his chest he went on proudly: "I'm in the automobile business, and I'm a cracker jack at it, too. Only been in it a month, but I guess I've made good all right."
She smiled at his unblushing self-conceit.
"Only been at it a month?" she echoed. "Why, what did you do before that?"
The question seemed to embarrass him.
"Oh, I worked hard enough," he replied carelessly. "I got up at noon, had breakfast, played golf or took a spin in the machine, ran in to the club, dressed for dinner, ate, went to a show, back to clubs, played poker till three A. M., back home. Same old thing week in, week out, all through the season. Isn't that hard work?"
"Hard work—yes," she answered quietly. "I should think that very hard work if I had to do it. But I don't think it is exactly the kind of work a self-respecting man should do." Looking him straight in the face, she added: "At least, not the kind of man I would care to know——"
Tod shuffled his feet as if ill at ease. Under the scrutiny of her calm gaze he seemed to lose some of his self-assurance.
"You're dead right!" he stammered nervously. "But what can a fellow do? When one's in a certain set, one has to live as everyone else does." Summoning up courage, he demanded boldly: "If you lived in New York and knew everybody, wouldn't you like to have a jolly good time?"