Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan's way of talking that she paid no
attention to it.

"I suppose," she said vaguely, "one gets used to it. One gets used to
anything."

"Does one? Hum!" The "Hum" was so deep it seemed to boom from underneath
the ground. "I wonder how it's done," brooded Jonathan; "I've never
managed it."

Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought again how attractive he was.
It was strange to think that he was only an ordinary clerk, that Stanley
earned twice as much money as he. What was the matter with Jonathan? He
had no ambition; she supposed that was it. And yet one felt he was gifted,
exceptional. He was passionately fond of music; every spare penny he had
went on books. He was always full of new ideas, schemes, plans. But
nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed in Jonathan; you almost heard
it roaring softly as he explained, described and dilated on the new thing;
but a moment later it had fallen in and there was nothing but ashes, and
Jonathan went about with a look like hunger in his black eyes. At these
times he exaggerated his absurd manner of speaking, and he sang in church--
he was the leader of the choir--with such fearful dramatic intensity that
the meanest hymn put on an unholy splendour.

"It seems to me just as imbecile, just as infernal, to have to go to the
office on Monday," said Jonathan, "as it always has done and always will
do. To spend all the best years of one's life sitting on a stool from nine
to five, scratching in somebody's ledger! It's a queer use to make of
one's...one and only life, isn't it? Or do I fondly dream?" He rolled
over on the grass and looked up at Linda. "Tell me, what is the difference