"I hear--and I quite understand,"--I replied, quietly, "Your
destiny, as you have made it, is that of a rich man. And you do not
care about it. I think that's quite natural."

He laughed harshly.

"There you are again!" he exclaimed--"Up in the air and riding a
theory like a witch on a broomstick! It's NOT natural. That's just
where you're wrong! It's quite UN-natural. If a man has plenty of
money he ought to be perfectly happy and satisfied,--he can get
everything he wants,--he can move the whole world of commerce and
speculation, and can shake the tree of Fortune so that the apples
shall always fall at his own feet. But if the apples are tasteless
there's something wrong."

"Not with the apples," I said.

"Oh, I know what you mean! You would say the fault is with me, not
with Fortune's fruit. You may be right. Catherine says you are. Poor
mopish Catherine!--always ailing, always querulous! Come and cheer
her!"

"But"--I ventured to say--"I hardly know her."

"That's true. But she has taken a curious fancy to you. She has very
few fancies nowadays,--none that wealth can gratify. Her life has
been a complete disillusion. If you would do her and me a kindness,
come!"