“Not so, Rose. He is not of your world; and you would be wretched in his world. He is thinking of a girl in the village. You have described an ideal Antony. How, indeed, could you find out so much in twenty or thirty minutes?”
“The soul sees straight and swift.”
“But you do not see with your soul, Rose.”
“Yes, I do. What I have said is true. I don’t know how I know it is true; but it is true. Father was saying last night that some people have a sixth sense, and that by it they see things invisible—he was referring to George Fox and Swedenborg—and then he began to wonder if we had not once possessed seven senses; he thought there was inborn assurance of it, because people quite unconsciously swear by their seven senses. But five, or six, or seven, I am inclined to fall in love with Antony Van Hoosen, with the whole of them.”
“And Dick?”
“I had forgotten. Would you see him if you were me? or even write to him?”
“Have you written to him?”
Rose became scarlet and nervous. She could not tell a lie with that bland innocence of aspect which some women acquire; she had even a feeling of moral degradation, when she uttered the little word, “No.”
“Then I would not write on any account. I feel sure your love for Dick is only sentiment.”