“Oh, don’t let’s talk ‘shop.’ I’m sick of the piece and the theatre altogether.”
“Oh, come, it is not so bad,” said Joyce, consolingly. “We both ought to be playing good parts, and having rosier prospects. But things might be very much worse.”
He was feeling brighter this morning. Yvonne had written him a long, gossipy letter, full of encouragement and her own unconscious charm, thus lifting him on a little wave of cheerfulness. With a friend like Yvonne and daily bread, he ought to be thankful. As for Miss Stevens, he did not see what she had particularly to grumble at. If she had been beautiful or talented, she might have had reason to quarrel with her lot.
“Besides,” he added after a pause. “Look what a lovely day it is!”
“So you think we ought to be quite happy?”
“Moderately so.”
She was in a taciturn mood, and did not reply, but turned a little away from him and began to dig the sand with the toe of her boot. Suddenly she said, rather petulantly:—
“I wonder if you could ever love a woman.” He had grown accustomed to her late, discrete methods of conversation, so the question scarcely surprised him. He took off his hat, so as to enjoy the breeze, and rested both hands at his sides on the drain-pipe.
“I suppose I could if I tried,” he said carelessly, “but I’m very much better as I am. Why do you ask?”
She shrugged her shoulders.