“Don’t you like it?” he repeated eagerly.
“No,” quietly. “It isn’t like you at all.”
Probed for a reason, she would give none, except the woman’s reason which was no reason at all. Only when he ceased probing did she give it, and then voluntarily.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to change it then,” he laughed.
“Yes, change it, please. The only Phils I’ve ever known were men of a different stripe—men without purposes, without ambitions.” And then, after a pause, “I believe you to be different.”
“No! I have no purposes—no ambitions,” he said glowering again at the fire.
“That is not true.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you have ideals—of purity, of virtue, of courage.”
“No,” he mumbled, “I have no ideals. Life is a joke—without a point. If it has any, I haven’t discovered it yet.”