It consoled him a little that she should have confused them in her thought, in this way. “What was it you were to tell me in Venice?” he asked.
“I can't think, now.”
“Very likely something of yourself—or myself. A third person might say our conversational range was limited.”
“Do you think it is very egotistical?” she asked, in the gay tone which gave him relief from the sense of oppressive elevation of mind in her.
“It is in me,—not in you.”
“But I don't see the difference.”
“I will explain sometime.”
“When we get to Venice?”
They both laughed. It was very nonsensical; but nonsense is sometimes enough.
When they were serious again, “Tell me,” he said, “what you thought of that lady in Messina, the other day.”