He nearly wept.
"And I'm over thirty," he cried. "With all I meant to do!"
"Let's call it a honeymoon," said Sophie. "D' you know, in all
the six years we've been married, you've never told me what you
meant to do with your life?"
"With my life? What's the use? It's finished now." Sophie looked
up quickly from the Bay of Naples. "As far as my business goes, I
shall have to live on my rents like that architect at San
Moritz."
"You'll get better if you don't worry; and even if it rakes time,
there are worse things than--How much have you?"
"Between four and five million. But it isn't the money. You know
it isn't. It's the principle. How could you respect me? You never
did, the first year after we married, till I went to work like
the others. Our tradition and upbringing are against it. We can't
accept those ideals."
"Well, I suppose I married you for some sort of ideal," she
answered, and they returned to their forty-third hotel.
In England they missed the alien tongues of Continental streets
that reminded them of their own polyglot cities.
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