Clifford turned a smiling glance upon her, and she was impressed more than she ever had been before with the frank and genial expression of his face and the depth and earnestness of his clear brown eyes.
“Thank you,” he said. “I am sure that is a tribute worth winning. Yes, I do love to work—that is, I love to do well whatever I have to do.”
“That is certainly a most commendable spirit,” replied the girl, a slight shadow falling over her face as she thought of the aimless, pleasure-loving life that her lover was in the habit of leading—drifting with the tide, culling whatever was agreeable that was within his reach, and seduously avoiding everything that required personal effort, or anything of a self-sacrificing nature. “And I dare say,” she added, “you do your studying with the same cheerfulness and energy. I understand you are a Harvard student.”
Clifford colored a trifle, and wondered why she should be so interested in what concerned him.
“Yes,” he replied, after a slight pause, and with a thrill of feeling in his tones that betrayed more than his words, “I love to study; but, perhaps”—with a light laugh—“my interest in my present occupation is not prompted so much by a genuine love for it as for the privileges I expect to secure by means of it during the coming year.”
“I think you need not have qualified your previous statement, Mr. Faxon,” Gertrude gravely remarked, as she watched the shapely hand that was dexterously manipulating the screw-driver; “or, if it required any qualification at all, I should say that something higher than a mere liking or love for your work prompts you in whatever you do.”
Again Clifford turned a smiling look to her, and the light in his eyes thrilled her strangely.
“Can one be actuated by a higher motive than love?” he questioned.