“Ah,” she sighed, “I had such hopes of you, a year ago in Paris.”
“And I of you,” he said, boldly looking into her eyes.
Her manner was more distant now. “I’m afraid I don’t admire idlers very much. Why don’t you do something? You’ve ability enough, Mr. Denby.”
“It’s so difficult to get a thrill out of business,” he complained.
“And you must have thrills?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, “it’s such a dull old world nowadays.”
“Then why,” she exclaimed jestingly, “why don’t you take to crime?”
“I have thought of it,” he laughed, “but the stake’s too high—a thrill against prison.”
“So you want only little thrills then, Mr. Denby?”
“No,” he told her, “I’d like big ones better. Life or even death—but not prison. And what have you done since I saw you last? You are still doing nothing, too?”