“Oh, Langhetti!” said Despard, “what is it that I saw in the face of this poor child that so wrings my heart? What is this mystery of yours that you will not tell?”
“I can not solve it,” said Langhetti, “and therefore I will not tell it.”
“Tell it, whatever it is.”
“No, it is only conjecture as yet, and I will not utter it.”
“And it affects me?”
“Deeply.”
“Therefore tell it.”
“Therefore I must not tell it; for if it prove baseless I shall only excite your feeling in vain.”
“At any rate let me know. For I have the wildest fancies, and I wish to know if it is possible that they are like your own.”
“No, Despard,” said Langhetti. “Not now. The time may come, but it has not yet.”