"Would you like to go to the picnic this afternoon?"--with a spirit
which was wholly kind.
"Very much indeed; but I can't"--indicating the stack of papers on his
desk.
"Oh," listlessly.
"I am very poor, Miss Killigrew, and perhaps I am ambitious."
Her lips parted expectantly.
"Your father has promised to give me a chance on his coffee plantations
in Brazil this autumn, and I wish to show him that I know how to grind.
Plug, isn't that the American for it?" He smiled across the desk. "I
wish to prove to you all that I am grateful. Your father, who knows
something of men, says there is one hidden away in me somewhere, if
only I'll take the trouble to dig it out. I should like to be with you
and your guests all the time. I like play, and I have been very lonely
all my life." He fingered the papers irresolutely. "My place is here,
not with your guests; there's the width of the poles between us. I
ought not to know anything about the pleasures of idleness till the day
comes when I can afford to."
"Perhaps you are right," she admitted.
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