Читать книгу When the War Ends – Book Set - Bertrand William Sinclair - Страница 20

"You must have acquired experience, at least, even if none of those things proved an efficient method of making money," she returned lightly.

"A man like me," he remarked, "has first to learn how to make a living before he can set about making money."

"Making money is relative. Quite often it merely means making a living with an extended horizon," she observed. "I know a man with a ten-thousand-dollar salary who finds it a living, no more."

"Poor devil," he drawled sardonically. "When I get into the ten-thousand-a-year class I rather think it will afford me a few trifles beyond bare subsistence."

She smiled.

"Have you set that for a mark to shoot at?"

"I haven't set any limit," he replied. "I haven't got my sights adjusted yet."

"I can scarcely assure myself that you are really you," she said after a momentary silence. "I can't seem to disassociate you with Lone Moose and a blundering optimism, a mystical faith that the Lord would make things come out right if you only leaned on Him hard enough. Now your talk is flavored with both egotism and the bitterness of the cynic."

"How should a man talk?" he demanded. "Like a worm if he chance to be trodden on a few times? Does a man necessarily become cynical when he realizes that plugging from the bottom up is no child's play? As for egotism—Heaven knows you knocked that out of me pretty effectually when you left Lone Moose. You made me feel like a whipped puppy for months. I chucked myself out of the church because of that—that abased, disheartened feeling. For a year and a half I've been learning and discovering that life isn't a parlor game. Do you remember that letter you left with Cloudy Moon for me? I need only to recall a phrase here and there in that as a cure for incipient egotism. What do you think I should have become?" he flung at her, unconscious of the passion in his voice, "A poor thing glad of a ride in your car? Or a confirmed optimist in overalls?"

Sophie gave him a queer sidelong glance.

"Can't you let the dead past bury its dead?" she asked quietly.

Thompson kept his eyes on the smooth, green-bordered road for a minute. The quick wave of feeling passed. He stifled it—indeed, felt ashamed for letting it briefly master him.

"Of course," he answered at last, and turned to her with a friendly quirk of his lips. "It is buried pretty deep one way and another, isn't it? And it would hardly be decent to exhume the remains. Shall we talk about the weather?"

"Don't be sarcastic," she reproved gently. "Save that to cope with dad. He'll relish it coming from you."

"I don't know," Thompson said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't mind a chat with your father. We wouldn't agree on many things, by a good way, although I've discovered that some of his philosophy is sound enough. But I've got to make a move, and I'm so situated that I must make it quickly or not at all. I'm going to take the first north-bound steamer out of San Francisco. So I don't imagine Mr. Carr will have a chance at me soon."

"Oh, yes, he will," Sophie asserted confidently. "In about twenty minutes."

Thompson looked at her, startled a little by this bland assertion.

"We'll be home in about twenty minutes," she explained.

"But I'm—why take the trouble?" he asked bluntly. "I'm out of your orbit entirely. Or do you want to exhibit me as a horrible example?"

"You're downright rude," she laughed. "Or you would be if you were serious. Do you mind coming to see dad? And I'd like to hear more about your trip across the mountains with Tommy Ashe."

Thompson pricked up his ears.

"Oh, you know about that, eh?" he remarked. "How—"

"Not as much as I'd like to," she interrupted. "Will you come?"

"Yes," he agreed. "But give a fellow a chance. Don't drag me into your home looking like this. I'm not vain, but I'd feel more comfortable in clean clothes. I shipped all my things into town. They should be in the express office now. I'll come this afternoon or this evening, whichever you say. Drop me off at the first carline."

"I'll do better than that," she declared. "I'll drive you downtown myself."

"But it isn't necessary," he persisted. "I don't want to take up all your time, and—"

"For the rest of this day," Sophie murmured, "I have absolutely nothing to do but kill time. I get restless, and being out in the car cures that feeling. Do you mind if I chauff you a few miles more or less? Don't be ungallant. I love to drive."

"Oh, well."

Thompson mentally threw up his hands. In that gracious mood Sophie was irresistible. He sank back in the thick, resilient upholstery and resolved to take what the gods provided—to dance as it were, and reckon with the piper when he presented his bill.