“Yes, at school and in other ways; but now, I propose going to work in Mr. Ashby’s shop. You know, he has a wonderful place on Fifth Avenue where they have every kind of article one needs in the way of ornament or decorating. There is where Eleanor and I managed to get such splendid experience in textiles and other objects familiar to interior decorators.
“Now I propose going to work for him at a stated salary, and giving every morning to the work, this year. In the afternoons I will be free to visit Exhibitions, Museums, hunt up antiques, or just play. Four evenings every week we will attend school and lectures, you know, so there will not be very much time left in which to write letters.”
“You never did work hard at writing letters,” said Tom, smilingly.
“No, and this winter there will be even less time for them. My friends will have to be satisfied with picture post-cards or telegrams,” laughed Polly, hoping that would answer all expected requests for a correspondence.
“Well,” said Tom, “I only write to people I really want to hear from. And I never ask anyone to write to me unless I take a great deal of pleasure in reading their letters. I never asked you to correspond with me, have I?”
“No-o, I think not,” replied Polly, disconcerted at this announcement. She had felt sure he was going to beg her to write as often as possible, and now this was so different!
“I thought not! You see our likes and pursuits are so different. The very difference in our ways of living now—you with luxurious art in New York, me in the rugged life of a miner in the Rockies, creates a gulf between our ideals. Mine is getting at gold that is the basis of most worldly success, and yours is an ideal and aspiration in art that transcends my common work and business. So we would not know what to say to each other in letters, would we? You would not wish to speak of gold and mining, and I haven’t any idea of art or its ideals.”
What it must have cost Tom to say all this, no one knows, but he was piqued, at last, and so acted his part admirably; and he had the satisfaction of seeing that Polly felt sorry at his words.
“Tom, I always felt sure you were an idealist at soul. It makes me feel a deep regret to learn that you have no such ideals left.”
Tom bid Polly good-by without an outward sign of regret, and so she sat and pondered over that unusual fact, long after he had gone.