“Don’t you think this would be a good time to tell him about his boat?”
“Perhaps.”
“You don’t seem much interested.”
“I hate to discourage you,” she shook her head; “but Walter is no good.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
“He’s better now, I’ll admit. But you should have seen him when he has been drinking for a week. Ugh! The very smell of him is piggish and loathsome! He is twenty-two years old, and he hasn’t done a stroke of work all his life.”
“Neither have I, and I am older by a decade.”
“I don’t think you always tell the truth about yourself.” Her quiet tone searched him. She seemed suddenly to peer into the privacy of his mind, and to discount all his gay philosophy.
“You are right,” he answered soberly; “I don’t.”
This was Richard’s nearest approach to moodiness. Troublous thoughts showed on his face.