"You suggest that it may become a pose."
"Yes," she said, nodding her head eagerly. "You might sacrifice the ideals to the idealism. It's like religion that teaches you to find God in a church, whereas you should be able to:—
Raise the stone and find me there,
Cleave the wood and there am I.
I so dislike cults and societies," she added inconsequently.
"You make me feel as if I were being lectured."
"I'm so sorry," she said hastily. "I didn't mean"
"Please go on, I think I like it."
"But we are wandering from vagabondage," she smiled. "Don't you think that Thoreau and Jefferies were vagabonds?"
"Frankly I don't," he said with decision. "They were sentimentalists. The nearest to perfect vagabonds that I can recall among writers are Walt Whitman and George Borrow. Whitman is alleged to have had all the characteristics of the vagabond. Have not controversies raged about his personal cleanliness? As for Borrow, he could outwit a Jew or a gipsy."
"And cheat a girl's love for him," she suggested.
"Love and vagabondage are contradictions."
"Contradictions!" she cried, opening her eyes wide. "I don't agree with you," she added with decision.
