“Oh, this is too much!” under his breath. “No, no—a thousand times no!” he exclaimed; “they are the two most miserable holes in creation! There are no parks, no theaters in Arkdale or Wermesley. You might see a lady on horseback—one lady in a week! They are two county towns, and nothing of that kind ever goes on in them. You mean London, and—and places like that when you speak of theaters and that sort of thing!”
“Yes, London,” she says, quietly. “Tell me all about that—I have read about it in books.”
“Books!” said the Savage, in undisguised contempt; “what’s the use of them! You must see life for yourself—books are no use. They give it to you all wrong; at least, I expect so; don’t know much about them myself.”
“Tell me,” she repeated, “tell me of the world outside the forest; tell me about yourself.”
“About myself? Oh, that wouldn’t interest you.”
“Yes,” she said, simply, “I would rather hear about yourself than about anything else.”
“Look here, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Tell me all you can think of,” she said, calmly; “about your father and mother.”
“Haven’t got any,” he said; “they’re both dead.”
“I am sorry,” she said.