“May I go with you?”
“Yes, if you want to. I don't know but you betta; we might as well; I want to talk with you. Don't you think it's something we ought to talk about—sensibly?”
“Why, of course! And I shall try to be guided by you; I should always submit to be ruled by you, if—”
“That's not what I mean, exactly. I don't want to do the ruling. You don't undastand me.”
“I'm afraid I don't,” he assented, humbly.
“If you did, you wouldn't say that—so.” He did not venture to make any answer, and they walked on without speaking, till she asked, “Did you know that Miss Milray was at the Middlemount?”
“Miss Milray! Of Florence?”
“With her brother. I didn't see him; Mrs. Milray is not he'a; they ah' divo'ced. Miss Milray used to be very nice to me in Florence. She isn't going back there any moa. She says you can't go back to anything. Do you think we can?”
She had left moments between her incoherent sentences where he might interrupt her if he would, but he waited for her question. “I hoped we might; but perhaps—”
“No, no. We couldn't. We couldn't go back to that night when you threw the slippas into the riva, no' to that time in Florence when we gave up, no' to that day in Venice when I had to tell you that I ca'ed moa fo' some one else. Don't you see?”