“I don’t suppose any one else would have been struck by the resemblance,” said Libby, with a laugh of reminiscence. “He was huge. But he had eyes like a girl,—I beg your pardon,—like yours.”
“You mean that I have eyes like a man.”
He laughed, and said, “No,” and then turned grave. “As long as he lived”—
“Oh, is he dead?” she asked more gently than she had yet spoken.
“Yes, he died just before I went abroad. I went out on business for my father,—he’s an importer and jobber,—and bought goods for him. Do you despise business?”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“I did it to please my father, and he said I was a very good buyer. He thinks there’s nothing like buying—except selling. He used to sell things himself, over the counter, and not so long ago, either.
“I fancied it made a difference for me when I was in college, and that the yardstick came between me and society. I was an ass for thinking anything about it. Though I didn’t really care, much. I never liked society, and I did like boats and horses. I thought of a profession, once. But it wouldn’t work. I’ve been round the world twice, and I’ve done nothing but enjoy myself since I left college,—or try to. When I first saw you I was hesitating about letting my father make me of use. He wants me to become one of the most respectable members of society, he wants me to be a cotton-spinner. You know there’s nothing so irreproachable as cotton, for a business?”
“No. I don’t know about those things.”
“Well, there isn’t. When I was abroad, buying and selling, I made a little discovery: I found that there were goods we could make and sell in the European market cheaper than the English, and that gave my father the notion of buying a mill to make them. I’m boring you!”