He allowed some minutes to pass before saying gently: "You're happy?"
She spoke while watching a flock of sheep trotting clumsily up a hillside from the noise of the train. "And you?"
"Oh, I'm as happy as—well, as I deserve to be. I'm not unhappy." A pause gave emphasis to his question when he said, almost repeating her tone: "And you?"
"I suppose I ought to say the same." A dozen or twenty rooks alighting on an elm engaged her attention before she added: "I've no right to be unhappy."
"One can be unhappy without a right."
"Yes; but one forfeits sympathy."
"Do you need sympathy?"
She answered hurriedly: "No, not at all."
"I do."
His words were so low that it was permissible for her not to hear them. Perhaps she meant at first to make use of this privilege, but when a minute or more had gone by she said: "What for?"