He had somehow nothing to say, but of course he should think of something striking directly.

One of Fay's charms was that she did not talk much.
A young couple close at hand were not hampered by any doubts as to a choice of subject.
From among the roots of a clump of alder rose a sweet little noise of mouse talk, intermittent, _affaire_, accompanied by sudden rustlings and dartings under dead leaves, momentary glimpses of a tiny brown bride and bridegroom.

Ah! wedded bliss! Ah! youth and sunshine, and the joy of life in a new soft silken coat! Fay and Wentworth watched and listened, smiling at each other from time to time.
"I am forced to the conclusion," said Wentworth at last, "that even in these early days Mrs.Mouse does not listen to all Mr.Mouse says." "How could she, poor thing, when he never leaves off talking ?" "Well, neither does she.

They both talk at once.

I suppose they have not our morbid craving for a listener." "Do you think--I mean really and truly--that they are talking about themselves ?" said Fay, looking at Wentworth as if any announcement of his on the subject would be considered final.
"No doubt," he said indulgently, willing to humour her, and feeling more like a cavalier than ever.
Then he actually noticed how pale she was.
"You look tired," he said.