“And you’re the nicest thing about it.”
At this frontal attack, Kate waited to see whether it meant further attack, skirmish, or retreat. His general softness of expression, showed that it meant attack. 139
Bertram, in fact, was in the mood for attack on rose citadels. A year of life on twelve dollars a week—cheap, crowded lodgings, meals at the Hotel Marseillaise, the landlady’s daughter and those of her kind for companionship—and now, in a week, the refinements of the Tiffany house, the refinement plus entertainment of the Masters villa, and these two lovely, fragrant women. It seemed all to roll up in him as he sat there, the woods about him and this golden creature at his side; and it found half-unconscious expression on his lips.
“I’m going to be rich some day,” he said.
“I hope so.”
“I am, sure. When I get rich I’m going to have a place like this—I’ll have a long pull by that time and be able to invite anybody I want—this is the only way to live.” His voice fell away.
Then he looked up and bent upon her that smile.
“It’s great to have a girl like you to confide in,” he said.
“Thank you; but you haven’t confided much as yet,” responded Kate.
“I don’t suppose there is a whole lot to 140 confide. At least, things you’d want to tell a girl like you. Only one thing. I’m in love!”