His irony passed beyond her.
"I am a vagabond," she insisted. "I haven't a single conventional instinct. I've never had. I hate convention. It fetters and stifles me. My money! If you only knew how I loathe the responsibilities, the endless formalities, the people who prey upon me and those who would like to, the toadying of the older people, the hypocrisy of the younger ones. It isn't me that they care for. I have no friends. No one as rich as I am can have friends. I distrust everyone. Sometimes I've thought of going away from it all—disappearing and never coming back again. I'm so tired of having everything I want. I want to want something I can't get. I am weary of everything that life can offer me. I have to choose unhealthy excitements to keep my soul alive. Speed—danger—they're the only things that seem to make life worth while."
He shook his head as she paused for breath.
"Oh, I know you think I'm mad. I seem so by contrast to your content.
You seem so happy, Mr. Markham."
"I am," he said. "All vagabonds are happy."
She looked at him enviously as though she might by chance discover his secret of life, but he lit his pipe and puffed at it silently.
"What is your secret of happiness, Mr. Markham?" she asked wistfully.
"Tell me, won't you?"
"'An open hand, an easy shoe and a hope to make the day go through,'" he quoted with a quick laugh.
"What else?"
"Thirst—and a good inn to quench it at."