"Harry," she said, when the journey was more than half completed, "you never told me what you thought of my letter."
"Which letter?" But he knew very well which was the letter in question.
"My prudent letter,—written in answer to yours that was very imprudent."
"I thought there was nothing more to be said about it."
"Come, Harry, don't let there be any subject between us that we don't care to think about and discuss. I know what you meant by not answering me. You meant to punish me,—did you not, for having an opinion different from yours? Is not that true, Harry?"
"Punish you,—no; I did not want to punish you. It was I that was punished, I think."
"But you know I was right. Was I not right?"
"I think you were wrong, but I don't want to say anything more about it now."
"Ah, but, Harry, I want you to talk about it. Is it not everything to me,—everything in this world,—that you and I should agree about this? I have nothing else to think of but you. I have nothing to hope for but that I may live to be your wife. My only care in the world is my care for you! Come, Harry, don't be glum with me."
"I am not glum."