"How like you to say that! It is good to me to hear your voice again, Honor."
"Take down my rod then, and tell me why you are going. Half of Endicott's is your own."
"I thought—I believed that you would be happier if I did so. And I still suspect that is the case. I owe you deeper reparation than ever a man owed a woman."
"You are too good, but your goodness becomes morbid."
"I'm only a clumsy fool, and never knew how clumsy or how much a fool until I met you."
"No, I say you are really good. Goodness is a matter of temperament, not morals. Some of the most God-fearing, church-going people I know can't be good; some of the worst people I ever heard about—even frank heathens like yourself—can't be bad. There's a paradox for you to preach about!"
But he shook his head.
"Your mind's too quick for me. Yet I think I know what you mean. By 'goodness' and 'badness' you signify a nature sympathetic or otherwise. It's all a question of selfishness at bottom."
"But the day looks too beautiful for such talk," answered Honor.
"So it is; I don't desire to talk of anything. You can't guess what it is to me to hear your voice again—just the music of it. It intoxicates me, like drink."