“Where did you come from?”
“From a certain place in the North, called Brocklebank.”
“But what brought you to London?” I cried.
“What brought me to London?” he repeated, in quite a different tone,—so much softer. “Well, Cary, I wanted to see something.”
“Have you been to see it?” I asked, more to give myself time to cool down than because I cared to know.
“Yes, I have been to see it,” he said, and smiled.
“And did you find it as agreeable as you expected?”
“Quite. I had seen it before, and I wanted to know if it were spoiled.”
“Oh, I hope it is not spoiled!” said I.
“Not at all,” said he, his voice growing softer and softer. “No, it is not spoiled yet, Cary.”