He is thinking of the noisy multitude that are connected in his memory with my father's mansion; that, during all his experience of it, have filled its rooms and passages with the hubbub of their strong-lunged jollity.
"Yes, I have been," I reply; "not often, of course! but several times, when the boys were away, and father and mother and Barbara had gone out to dinner; of course it seemed still and dumb, but not--" (shuddering a little)--"not so _aggressively loudly_ silent as this does!" He looks at me, with a sort of remorseful pain.
"It _is_ very dull for you!" he says, compassionately; "shut up in endless duet, with a person treble your age! I ought to have thought of that; in a month or so, we shall be going to London, _that_ will amuse you, will not it?
and till then, is there any one that you would like to have asked here ?--any friend of your own ?--any companion of your own age ?" "No," reply I, despondently, staring out of the window, "I have no friends." "The boys, then ?" speaking with a sudden assurance of tone, as one that has certainly hit upon a pleasant suggestion.
I shake my head.
"I could not have Bobby and the Brat, if I would, and I would not have Algy if I could!" I reply with curt dejection.
"Barbara, then ?" Again I shake my head.

Not even Barbara will I allow to witness the failure of my dreams, the downfall of my high castles, the sterility of my Promised Land.
"No, I will not have Barbara!" I answer; "last time that she was here--" but I cannot finish my sentence.

I break away weeping..