"And yours?"
"Oh, as to mine;—there are some things, Alice, that a man does not tell to any one."
"Are there? They must be very terrible things."
"The schoolboy, when he sits down to make his rhymes, dares not say, even to his sister, that he hopes to rival Milton; but he nurses such a hope. The preacher, when he preaches his sermon, does not whisper, even to his wife, his belief that thousands may perhaps be turned to repentance by the strength of his words; but he thinks that the thousand converts are possible."
"And you, though you will not say so, intend to rival Chatham, and to make your thousand converts in politics."
"I like to hear you laugh at me,—I do, indeed. It does me good to hear your voice again with some touch of satire in it. It brings back the old days,—the days to which I hope we may soon revert without pain. Shall it not be so, dearest?"
Her playful manner at once deserted her. Why had he made this foolish attempt to be tender? "I do not know," she said, gloomily.
For a few minutes he sat silent, fingering some article belonging to her which was lying on the table. It was a small steel paper-knife, of which the handle was cast and gilt; a thing of no great value, of which the price may have been five shillings. He sat with it, passing it through his fingers, while she went on with her work.
"Who gave you this paper-cutter?" he said, suddenly.
"Goodness me, why do you ask? and especially, why do you ask in that way?"