"I am not a very pleasant companion, I know," said Mowbray, smiling; "my own thoughts oppress me; but if I cannot be merry with you, I may at least forbear to wound your feelings."
"My feelings are not wounded, Ernest," Hoffland said, with a bright glance which shone like the sun after an April shower; "I only—only—thought you were not right in abusing Rosalind; and—and calling me 'an inexperienced youth!' I am not an inexperienced youth," he laughed; "but let us dismiss the subject. What oppresses you, Ernest? I can't bear to see you sad."
"My thoughts," said Mowbray.
"That is too general."
"It is useless to particularize."
And Mowbray's head drooped. As the pleasant May breeze raised the locks of his dark hair, his face looked very pale and sad.
"The subject of our discourse in the fields some days since?" asked Hoffland in a low tone.
"Yes," said Mowbray calmly.
A long silence followed this reply. Then Hoffland said:
"Why should that still annoy you? Men should be strong."