"It is the best possible thing that could be done. Then—whatever happens—I shall not be compromising my friends. For a while—there must be no communication between them and me."
"Oh, yes!" she said, involuntarily clasping her hands. "Friends may write."
"May they?" He thought it over, with a furrowed brow, then raised it, clear. "What shall they write about?"
An exquisite joyousness trembled in her look.
"Leave it to them!"
Then, as she once more perceived the anxiety and despondency in him, the brightness clouded; pity possessed her: "Tell me what you are preaching—and writing."
"If I preach—if I write. And what will you tell me?"
"'How the water comes down at Lodore,'" she said gayly. "What the mountains look like, and how many rainy days there are in a week."
"Excellent! I perceive you mean to libel the country I love!"
"You can always come and see!" she said, with a shy courage.