'Well,' said he smiling, 'I do not. Do you?'
'I used to think I did. What do you mean by rest, Mr. Rollo?'
'Look at those lines of cloud. They tell. The repose of satisfied exertion; the happy looking back upon work done, after the call for work is over.'
She looked up, and kept looking up; but she did not speak. Somehow the new combinations of these last weeks had made her sober; she did not get used to them. The little wayward scraps of song had been silent, and the quick speeches did not come.
'But then,' Rollo went on again presently, 'then comes up another question. What is work? I mean, what is work for such people as you and I?'
'I suppose,' said Hazel, 'whatever we find to do.'
'I have not found anything. Have you? Those clouds somehow seem to speak reproach to me. May be that is their business.'
'I have not been looking,' said Hazel. 'You know I have been shut up until this summer. But I should think you might have found plenty,—going among people as you do.'
'What sort?'
'Different sorts, I suppose. At least if you are as good at making work for yourself in some cases as you are in others,' she said with a queer little recollective gleam in her face. 'Did it never occur to you that you might set the world straight—and persuade its orbit into being regular?'