And, as we ate, sometimes talking and sometimes laughing (though rarely; one seldom laughs in the wilderness), our hands would stray to meet each other across the table, and eye would answer eye, while, in the silence, the brook would lift its voice to chuckle throaty chuckles and outlandish witticisms, such as could only be expected from an old reprobate who had grown so in years, and had seen so very much of life. At such times Charmian's cheeks would flush and her lashes droop—as though (indeed) she were versed in the language of brooks.
So the golden hours slipped by, the sun crept westward, and evening stole upon us.
"This is a very rough place for you," said I, and sighed.
We were sitting on the bench before the door, and Charmian had laid her folded hands upon my shoulder, and her chin upon her hands. And now she echoed my sigh, but answered without stirring:
"It is the dearest place in all the world."
"And very lonely!" I pursued.
"I shall be busy all day long, Peter, and you always reach home as evening falls, and then—then—oh! I sha'n't be lonely."
"But I am such a gloomy fellow at the best of times, and very clumsy,
Charmian, and something of a failure."
"And—my husband."
"Peter!—Peter!—oh, Peter!" I started, and rose to my feet.