"Guess it's the refinement of competition due to the claims of our much proclaimed culture and civilization. I think civilization is a—a dreadful mockery. To call it a whitewash would be a libel on a perfectly innocent, wholesome, sanitary process. That's how I always feel when I stop to think. But—but," her eyes began to dance with a joyous enthusiasm, "I don't often think—not that way. Say, I just love the battle, I mean the modern battle for fortune. It's—it's almost the champagne of life. I know only one thing to beat it."
Gordon had forgotten the team he was driving, and let them amble leisurely on towards the house, now so rapidly approaching.
"What's—the real champagne?" he inquired.
The girl turned and gazed at him with wide eyes.
"Why," she cried. "Life—just life itself. What else? Say, think of the moment your eyes open to the splendid sunlight of day. Think of the moment you realize you are living—living—living, after a long, delicious night's sleep. Think of all the perfect moments awaiting you before night falls, and you seek your bed again. It is just the very essence of perfect joy."
"It's better after breakfast, and you've had time to get around some."
The ardor of the girl's mood received a sudden douche. Just for a moment a gleam of displeasure shadowed her eyes. Then a twinkling smile grew, and the clouds dispersed.
"Isn't that just a man? Where's your enthusiasm? Where's your joy of life? Where's your romance, and—and spirit of hope?"
A great pretense of reproach lay in her rapid questions.
"Oh, they're all somewhere lying around, I guess," returned Gordon simply. "Those things are all right, sure. But—but it's a mighty tough proposition worrying that way on—on an empty stomach. It seems to me that's just one of life's mistakes. There ought to be a law in Congress that a feller isn't allowed to—to think till he's had his morning coffee. The same law might provide for the fellow who fancies himself a sort of canary and starts right in to sing before he's had his bath. I'd have him sent to the electric chair. That sort of fellow never has a voice worth two cents, and he most generally has a repertoire of songs about as bright as Solomon's, and a mighty deal older. Sure, Miss Mallinsbee, I haven't a word to say against life in a general way, but it's about as wayward as a spoilt kid, and needs as much coaxing."