"And you will be walking month after month," she said dreamily, "with no thought of the London Season, or Scotland, or wintering in Egypt. I wish I were you," she added.
"But surely you could break away if you wished it?"
"It's not so easy for a girl," she replied, "and—and—oh, there are so many considerations. No," she added with a sigh of resignation, "I must be content with occasional lapses, and I don't really know that I'm a true vagabond," she said a little regretfully, "I always have to carry a comfortable frock with me," glancing down at herself, then looking up at him with a quizzical little smile. "That is in itself a sign of weakness, isn't it?"
"Only if you persist in labels," he replied. "You are dreadfully conventional."
"I!" she cried in surprise.
"Yes; you will insist on classifying every one according to appearances and accepted ideas."
"I don't understand," she said with a puzzled expression.
"Your idea of a vagabond is that of one who washes seldom, changes even seldomer, and spends the evening in hob-nailed boots by the inn fireside."
"I suppose you are right," she said laughing. "It's very difficult to get away from labels."
"Do you believe that Nature discourages eccentricity?"
"I—I'm afraid I've never thought about it," she said after a short pause. "Why?"
