THE BETTER SORT
do wait it will all come with a rush? But say I am sorry for you," Bight lucidly pursued; "how does that prove either that my motive is base or that I do you a wrong?"
The girl waived this question, but she presently tried another. "Is it your idea that we should live on all the people———?"
"The people we catch? Yes, old man, till we can do better."
"My conviction is," she soon returned, "that if I were to marry you I should dish you. I should spoil the business. It would fall off; and, as I can do nothing myself, then where should we be?"
"Well," said Bight, "we mightn't be quite so high up in the scale of the morbid."
"It's you that are morbid," she answered. "You've, in your way—like everyone else, for that matter, all over the place—'sport' on the brain."
"Well," he demanded, "what is sport but success? What is success but sport?"
"Bring that out somewhere. If it be true," she said, "I'm glad I'm a failure."
After which, for a longish space, they sat together in silence, a silence finally broken by a word from the young man. "But about Mortimer Marshal—how do you propose to save him?"
It was a change of subject that might, by its so easy introduction of matter irrelevant, have seemed intended to dissipate whatever was left of his proposal of marriage. That proposal, however, had been somehow both too much in the tone of familiarity to linger and too little in that of vulgarity to drop. It had had no form, but the mild air kept perhaps thereby the better the taste of it. This was sensibly moreover in what the girl found to reply. "I think, you know, that he'd be no such bad friend. I mean that, with his appetite, there would be something to be done. He doesn't half hate me."
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