The day was soft for December. Mount Julien towered up beyond the river, close at hand, its fortifications lightly covered by a mantle of snow. As they came out on the Place de l’Etoile the broad avenues seemed alive with cabs. The vivacity of the scene in which she had no real share rendered her sombre.
“You had a great chance,” she said at last, sighing unconsciously.
Wilbur smiled. “There are always plenty more.”
“For a man, for men such as you!”
“I guess for women, too.”
“Nonsense,” she took him up sharply. “A husband, or a vocation badly filled. What chance is there for me?” She gave her egotism rein recklessly.
“You are pretty well off.” Wilbur never wasted emotion over cultivated evils.
“Yes, too well! My brick-stock will always make me incapable of doing anything rash.”
“Oh!” Wilbur turned a more curious eye on his companion. “That’s the rub. You want more?”
“Or less.”