But you cannot stop at this.

I begin to fear for you.

There is a convention of unconventionality: poor quarters, hard life, stinted pleasures--all that kind of thing.

I fear its effect upon you.' 'What choice have I ?' exclaimed Alma, moved to familiar frankness.

'If I _am_ poor, I must live poorly.' He smiled graciously upon her, and raised his hand almost as though he would touch her with reassuring kindness; but it was only to stroke his trimmed beard.
'Oh, you have a choice, believe me,' came his airy answer.