"Go on, Martin."
"'Twas nought."
"Aye, but it was! You said 'Why, then.' Prithee, dear sir, continue."
Myself (sitting up and blinking at the moon): Why, then, if you—we—are—if we should be so unfortunate as to be left solitary in these cruel wilds and no hope of winning back to England, should you grieve therefor?
She (after a moment): Should you, Martin?
Myself (mighty fervently): Aye, indeed!
She (quickly): Why, Martin—pray why?
Myself (clenching my fists): For that we should be miserable outcasts cut off from all the best of life.
She: The best? As what, Martin?
Myself: Civilisation and all its refinements, all neighbourliness, the comforts of friendship, all security, all laws, and instead of these—dangers, hardship, and solitude.