"I hope so, in a measure; though it's my belief that harm done can never really be repaired; only patched up."
"That's a very terrible doctrine, Mrs Lenox."
"I'm afraid facts go to prove the truth of it."
Although she spoke quietly, a touch of hardness had invaded her voice; and Richardson had no answer to give her. His cheerful, easy-going nature had rarely been so deeply stirred. A new and delightful experience seemed to be taking an unlooked-for turn, and his lame attempts at self-defence in the third person struck him as bordering on the grotesque. He set his teeth and flicked the pony viciously; then hauled at his mouth because he broke into a canter. Yet he was a tender-hearted man.
"Poor little beast! Don't treat him like that," she rebuked him, between jest and earnest, "What's wrong? The city seems to have disagreed with you."
Again he did not answer: and for a time they drove on without speaking, each, if the truth be told, thinking of the other. Then she startled him with one of her direct, inconsequent questions.
"Mr Richardson, how old are you?"
He laughed.
"Just thirty. Why?"
"I was only wondering. You're the sort of man who ought to marry.
Have you never thought of it yet?"