“It’s not a museum!” She stamped her foot. He laughed. They supped in silence for several minutes.
“You know,” he said, as he held his cup for coffee, “after all, there is a certain satisfaction in food. Nothing else gives one quite the same feeling of completeness.” She nodded. “By the way, you can probably tell me if this is the only little hillside town like this in the neighbourhood with houses like this. Even a tramp sometimes likes to know where he is—on a dark night.”
“There are the two towns, Roseborough and Poplars Vale. Roseborough is the older. Poplars Vale used to be just a farm and a corner store. Now, you see, it is quite a place. Almost like Roseborough.”
“Well, well; that accounts for it! Poplars Vale, eh?” he muttered. “And I thought it was Roseborough.” Busy with the coffee-pot she did not hear him. He leaned toward her. “Are the two towns comfortably close to each other?”
“What? Oh, yes. An hour’s ride.”
“Only an hour’s separation? What a charming arrangement,” surveying her with pleasure as she dropped two lumps into his cup. “What a queer sugar-bowl?” he lifted it. “Sterling?”
“Oh—no—o. I suppose not.”
He laughed.
“Shame on you for a fibster! you are still a wee mite afraid I may put it in my pocket. And what would I do with a monstrous thing like that—all top-heavy with a row of little deformed cupids. ’Tis cumbersome and unsightly—and quite useless. It reminds me of a royal tea-service I’ve seen—than which nothing could be uglier. A white china bowl would be prettier—and cleaner.” He set it down. “If I took it I would not do so ill as the thief, Ambition, who came into your house of life before me, and robbed you of your faith and the ability to be glad. Believe me, faith—joyous faith—is worth more than many silver bowls—and deformed little cupids,” he smiled.
“True, perhaps,” she said, thoughtfully. Suddenly she was stirred to resentment at life and at him also; for his joyous, impudent freedom seemed to make her feel her caged condition more than ever before. She pushed her plate away, and rose. “And yet—do you suppose I could have been robbed of it if I’d ever possessed a glad faith? It is not for you to criticise me, is it?” She spoke with a trace of haughtiness. “Let us think no more of serious things. Eating, drinking, comfort, and ease—there’s my definition of life, Vagabond. And it seems to agree with yours.” She pointed to his plate. He turned on her suddenly.