‘I am penitent,’ he answered. ‘Only it really sounded like a village in a tale rather than in real life.’

‘And so it is,’ replied Margaret, eagerly. ‘All the other places in England that I have seen seem so hard and prosaic-looking, after the New Forest. Helstone is like a village in a poem — in one of Tennyson’s poems. But I won’t try and describe it any more. You would only laugh at me if I told you what I think of it — what it really is.’

‘Indeed, I would not. But I see you are going to be very resolved. Well, then, tell me that which I should like still better to know what the parsonage is like.’

‘Oh, I can’t describe my home. It is home, and I can’t put its charm into words.’

‘I submit. You are rather severe to-night, Margaret.

‘How?’ said she, turning her large soft eyes round full upon him. ‘I did not know I was.’

‘Why, because I made an unlucky remark, you will neither tell me what Helstone is like, nor will you say anything about your home, though I have told you how much I want to hear about both, the latter especially.’

‘But indeed I cannot tell you about my own home. I don’t quite think it is a thing to be talked about, unless you knew it.’

(Editor：system)