"New York isn't full of them."
"Miss Prudence sees them," replied Marjorie with dignity.
"She is a bird of their feather. I do not fly, I walk on the ground--with
my eyes on it, perhaps."
"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?"
How Marjorie laughed!
"Hollis, do talk to me instead of writing. And I'll write to you instead
of talking."
"That is, you wish me near to you and yourself far away from me. That is
the only way that we can satisfy each other.
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