He laughed, and said, “No,” and then turned grave. “As long as he lived”— “Oh, is he dead?” she asked more gently than she had yet spoken. “Yes, he died just before I went abroad. I went out on business for my father,—he’s an importer and jobber,—and bought goods for him. Do you despise business?” “I don’t know anything about it.” “I did it to please my father, and he said I was a very good buyer. He thinks there’s nothing like buying—except selling. He used to sell things himself, over the counter, and not so long ago, either. “I fancied it made a difference for me when I was in college, and that the yardstick came between me and society. I was an ass for thinking anything about it. Though I didn’t really care, much. I never liked society, and I did like boats and horses. I thought of a profession, once. But it wouldn’t work. I’ve been round the world twice, and I’ve done nothing but enjoy myself since I left college,—or try to. When I first saw you I was hesitating about letting my father make me of use. He wants me to become one of the most respectable members of society, he wants me to be a cotton-spinner. You know there’s nothing so irreproachable as cotton, for a business?” “No. I don’t know about those things.” “Well, there isn’t. When I was abroad, buying and selling, I made a little discovery: I found that there were goods we could make and sell in the European market cheaper than the English, and that gave my father the notion of buying a mill to make them. I’m boring you!” “No.” “Well, he bought it; and he wants me to take charge of it.” “And shall you?” “Do you think I’m fit for it?” “I? How should I know?” “You don’t know cotton; but you know me a little. Do I strike you as fit for anything?” She made no reply to this, and he laughed. “I assure you I felt small enough when I heard what you had done, and thought—what I had done. It gave me a start; and I wrote my father that night that I would go in for it.” “I once thought of going to a factory town,” she answered, without wilful evasion, “to begin my practice there among the operatives’ children. I should have done it if it had not been for coming here with Mrs. Maynard. It would have been better.” “Come to my factory town, Miss Breen! There ought to be fevers there in the autumn, with all the low lands that I’m allowed to flood Mrs. Maynard told me about your plan.” “Pray, what else did Mrs. Maynard tell you about me?” “About your taking up a profession, in the way you did, when you needn’t, and when you didn’t particularly like it.” “Oh!” she said. Then she added, “And because I wasn’t obliged to it, and didn’t like it, you tolerated me?” “Tolerated?” he echoed. This vexed her. “Yes, tolerate! Everybody, interested or not, has to make up his mind whether to tolerate me as soon as he hears what I am. What excuse did you make for me?” “I didn’t make any,” said Libby. “But you had your misgiving, your surprise.”