"And I am a pauper," he went on.
He certainly was a pauper in comparison with Derwent; but, poverty being only comparative, he was a rich man to many. His mother's private fortune—some four hundred a year—was added to the pay which a grateful country gave him for his exertions on parade.
Derwent lived for a week in the agony of jealousy. He had never cared for anyone very much in all his previous life. He had indeed been aware of an innate capacity for affection, but the business of making money had left him no leisure.
One day he came to a decision.
"You are a fool," he said, apostrophising himself. "You are a fool. Go and ask her whether she can care for you. You don't know yet for certain; you only imagine. The soldier is a boy. Women—young women—don't care for boys. Besides, he is poor, and women like jewels."
The same afternoon he sought her out from a number of guests playing tennis on the Squire's lawn. She was flushed with victory, having, mainly by the aid of Jack's long legs and skill, succeeded in vanquishing the antagonistic couple in a hard fight. Derwent hated tennis, because he did not play it and Jack did. Tennis is not much practised in mining camps; they prefer shooting.
"Come," he said, very quietly, yet in the tone of one who is set upon a purpose. "I wish to speak to you. I can't talk in this crowd of fools. I have not yet got the hang of it."
She looked at him and laughed.
"What a dear old grumbler you are!" she cried. She really liked him—it is possible that there was something to like in him, and that if matters had run easily he would have been a pleasant member of society. A man after all is largely shaped by his surroundings.
He did not answer her, at which she was surprised, for his general taciturnity had usually disappeared at her bidding.