"Always lived here?" he said, with interest. "Ever since I was three years old." "Eighteen years! Then you are twenty-one?" murmured Jack. "Yes; how old are you?" she asked, calmly. "Twenty-two." "Twenty-two. And you have lived in the world all the time?" "Yes--very much so," he replied. "And you are going back to it. You will never come into the forest again, while I shall go on living here till I die, and never see the world in which you have lived. Does that sound strange to you?" "Do you mean to say that you have never been outside this forest?" he said, raising himself on his elbow to stare at her. "Yes. I have never been out of Warden since we came into it." "But--why not?" he demanded. "I do not know," she replied, simply. "But there must be some reason for it? Haven't you been to Arkdale or Wermesley?" "No," she said, smiling. "Tell me what they are like. Are they gay and full of people, with theaters and parks, and ladies riding and driving, and crowds in the streets?" "Oh, this is too much!" under his breath. "No, no--a thousand times no!" he exclaimed; "they are the two most miserable holes in creation! There are no parks, no theaters in Arkdale or Wermesley. You might see a lady on horseback--one lady in a week! They are two county towns, and nothing of that kind ever goes on in them. You mean London, and--and places like that when you speak of theaters and that sort of thing!" "Yes, London," she says, quietly. "Tell me all about that--I have read about it in books." "Books!" said the Savage, in undisguised contempt; "what's the use of _them_! You must see life for yourself--books are no use. They give it to you all wrong; at least, I expect so; don't know much about them myself." "Tell me," she repeated, "tell me of the world outside the forest; tell me about yourself." "About myself? Oh, that wouldn't interest you." "Yes," she said, simply, "I would rather hear about yourself than about anything else." "Look here, I don't know what to tell you." "Tell me all you can think of," she said, calmly; "about your father and mother." "Haven't got any," he said; "they're both dead." "I am sorry," she said. "Yes, they're dead," he said; "they died long ago." "And have you any brothers and sisters?" "No; I have a cousin, though," and he groaned. "I am so glad," she said, in a low voice. "Don't be. I'm not. He's a--I don't like him; we don't get on together, you know." "You quarrel, do you mean?" "Like Kilkenny cats," assented the Savage. "Then he must be a bad man," she said, simply. "No," he said, quietly; "everybody says that I am the bad one. I'm a regular bad lot, you know." "I don't think that you are bad," she said. "You don't; really not! By George! I like to hear you say that; but," with a slow shake of the head, "I'm afraid it's true. Yes, I am a regular bad lot." "Tell me what you have done that is so wrong," she said. "Oh--I've--I've spent all my money."