Why do you want to be rich?"
He was glancing back toward the hill, the light of calculations
in his eyes. Once more he was measuring out those plots of land,
calculating rent, deducting interest.
"We all seek different things," he replied tolerantly,--"some
fame, some pleasure. Mr. Dowling, for instance, has no other
ambition than to muddle round the golf links a few strokes better
than his partner."
"And you?" she asked.
"It is success I seek," he answered. "Women, as a rule, do not
understand. You, for instance, Beatrice, are too sentimental. I
am very practical. It is money that I want. I want money
because money means success."
"And afterwards?" she whispered.
He was attending to her no longer. They were turning now into
the broad thoroughfare at the bottom of the lane, at the end of
which a tram-car was waiting. He scribbled a few, final notes
into his pocket-book.
"To-morrow," he exclaimed, with the joy of battle in his tone,
"to-morrow the fight begins in earnest!"
Beatrice passed her hand through his arm.
"Not only for you, dear friend, but for me," she said. "For you?
What do you mean?" he asked quickly.
"I have been trying to tell you all day," she continued, "but you
have been too engrossed. Yesterday afternoon I went to see Mr.
Grier at the Atlas Theatre. I had my voice tried, and to-morrow
night I am going to take a small part in the new musical comedy."
Tavernake stared at her in something like consternation.
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