"In the next place," she continued soberly, after a pause, "I think it very odd in you not to reply to me,--oh, not now, for of course you are without a word of justification; but at other times. Frequently, when I speak to you, you look at me so," making a vacant little face, "and then suddenly disappear,--I don't mean bodily, but mentally." "I am no great talker at best," said Richard with a helpless air. "I seldom speak unless I have something to say." "But other people do. I, for instance." "Oh, you, Margaret; that is different. When you talk I don't much mind what you are talking about." "I like a neat, delicate compliment like that!" "What a perverse girl you are to-day!" cried Richard. "You won't understand me. I mean that your words and your voice are so pleasant they make anything interesting, whether it's important or not." "If no one were to speak until he had something important to communicate," observed Margaret, "conversation in this world would come to a general stop." Then she added, with a little ironical smile, "Even you, Richard, wouldn't be talking all the time." Formerly Margaret's light sarcasms, even when they struck him point-blank, used to amuse Richard, but now he winced at being merely grazed. Margaret went on: "But it's not a bit necessary to be circular or instructive--with me. I am interested in trivial matters,--in the weather, in my spring hat, in what you are going to do next, and the like. One must occupy one's self with something. But you, Richard, nowadays you seem interested in nothing, and have nothing whatever to say."