"Why it is that your life is care-ridden."
"But it isn't——"
"Tell me!"
He said, gaily enough: "To labour for others is sometimes a little irksome.... I am not discontented.... Only, if I had means—if I had barely sufficient—there are so many fascinating and exciting lines of independent research to follow—to make a name in——" He broke off with a light laugh, leaned forward and laid another log on the fire.
"You can not afford it?" she asked, in a low voice; and for the moment astonishment ruled her to discover that this very perfect specimen of intelligent and gifted manhood was struggling under such an amazingly trifling disadvantage.[51] Only from reading and from hearsay had she been even vaguely acquainted with the existence of poverty.
"No," he said pleasantly, "I can not yet afford myself the happiness of independent research."
"When will you be able to afford it?"
Neither were embarrassed; he looked thoughtfully into the fire; and for a while she watched him in his brown study.
"Will it be soon?" she asked, under her breath.
"No, dear."