“Who knows?” said Layton, sorrowfully.
“I'm sure I never had such a pleasant time of it in my life. Have you?”
“I—I don't know,—that is, I believe not. I mean—never,” stammered out Layton, in confusion.
“Ha! I fancied as much. I thought you didn't like it as well as I did.”
“Why so?” asked Layton, eagerly.
“It was May put it into my head the other morning. She said it was downright cruelty to make you come out and stop here; that you could n't, with all your politeness, conceal how much the place bored you!”
“She said this?”
“Yes; and she added that if it were not for Clara, with her German lessons and her little Venetian barcarolles, you would have been driven to desperation.”
“But you could have told her, Henry, that I delighted in this place; that I never had passed such happy days as here.”
“I did think so when we knew them first, but latterly it seemed to me that you were somehow sadder and graver than you used to be. You didn't like to ride with us; you seldom came down to the river; you'd pass all the morning in the library; and, as May said, you only seemed happy when you were giving Clara her lesson in German.”