"It is quite early yet--not near luncheon-time--would it bore you very
much to take a turn in the park? I think" (with a smile) "that you are
quite honest enough to say so if it would: or, if you did not, I should
read it on your face."

"Would you?" say I, a little piqued. "I do not think you would: I assure
you that my face can tell stories, at a pinch, as well as its neighbor."

"Well, _would_ it bore you?"

"Not at all! not at all!" reply I briskly, beginning to descend again;
"but one thing is very certain, and that is that it will bore _you_"

"Why should it?"

"If I say what I was going to say you will think that it is on purpose
to be contradicted," I answer, unlatching the gate in the fence, and
entering the park.

"And if I do, much you will mind," he answers, smiling.

"Well, then," say I, candidly, looking down at my feet as they trip
quickly along through the limp winter grass, "there is no use blinking
the fact that I have no conversation--none of us have. We can gabble
away among ourselves like a lot of young rooks, about all sorts of silly
home jokes, that nobody but us would see any fun in; but when it comes
to real talk--"

I pause expressively.