"Like the man with the muck rake," said Marjorie, quoting from her old love, Pilgrims Progress, "don't you know there was a crown held above his head, and his eyes were on the ground and he could not see it."
"No, I do not know it, but I perceive that you are talking an allegory at me."
"Not at you, to you," she corrected.
"You write very short letters to me, nowadays."
"Your letters are not suggestive enough," she said, archly.
"Like my conversation. As poor a talker as I am, I am a better talker than writer. And you—you write a dozen times better than you talk."
"I'm sorry I'm so unentertaining to-night. When Linnet writes she says: "'I wish I could talk to you,' and when I talk I think: 'I wish I could write it all to you.'"
"As some one said of some one who could write better than he talked, 'He has plenty of bank notes, but he carries no small change, in his pocket.'"
"It is so apt to be too small," she answered, somewhat severely.
"I see you are above talking the nonsense that some girls talk. What do you do to get rested from your thoughts?"