“You are quite a stranger,” said Dawn, coming up at a slow pace. “I've been taking time to enjoy the scenery.”
“So I perceive. I thought you had dismounted and was sketching, or writing a sonnet to the woods.”
“It were most likely to have been the latter, as I never sketch anything but human character.”
“Then tell me what I am like. Sketch me as I am.”
“You are unlike every one else,” said Dawn, in an absent manner.
“That's a diversion. Come to the point, and define me. I'm a riddle, I know.”
“If you have got thus far, you can analyze yourself. It's a good beginning to know what you are.”
“But I cannot unriddle myself. I have, under my rippling surface, a few deep thoughts, and good ones, and they make me speak and act better, sometimes. I am not all foam, Dawn.”
“I never supposed you were. There is a depth in you that you have never fathomed, because your life has been gay, and you have never needed the truths which lie deep, and out of sight.”
“But I'd rather go up than down; much rather.”