"Oh, in New York."
"Why in New York?"
"You don't know it?"
"No; but I mean to."
"I wish you joy."
"Tell me why in New York."
"You would n't understand."
"Would n't I? Try me."
I looked up at him as he stood there thoughtful, his forefinger between the leaves of the book. He had no living to earn. He had not to bear the burden and heat of an earned existence. How could he understand? So I questioned in my narrowness of outlook.
"I felt the burden," I answered.