"A few years more of life," said Carlton, smiling, "will make your judgment kinder."
"I don't like talkers," continued Charles; "I don't think I ever shall; I hope not."
"I know better what's at the bottom of it," said Sheffield; "but I can't stay; I must go in and read; Reding is too fond of a gossip."
"Who talks so much as you, Sheffield?" said Charles.
"But I talk fast when I talk," answered he, "and get through a great deal of work; then I give over: but you prose, and muse, and sigh, and prose again." And so he left them.
"What does he mean?" asked Carlton.
Charles slightly coloured and laughed: "You are a man I say things to, I don't to others," he made answer; "as to Sheffield, he fancies he has found it out of himself."
Carlton looked round at him sharply and curiously.
"I am ashamed of myself," said Charles, laughing and looking confused; "I have made you think that I have something important to tell, but really I have nothing at all."
"Well, out with it," said Carlton.