"Do you think so?" asked Elizabeth, in genuine surprise.
"Why, yes, I love the country; don't you," he said tranquilly.
She was silent for a moment, her eyes resting absently on the graceful erection of ferns in the centre of the table, which rose, like a fairy island, from a lake of glass. "It's not a conventional thing to say," she answered at last, slowly "but if you want the truth"—
"I always want the truth," said Gerard.
"Well, then, I don't think I do care for the country," she said. "I've had too much of it. I—there are times when I detest it." She spoke with sudden vehemence, and she met his wondering gaze with eyes that were curiously hard.
Gerard's face clouded. "You don't care for the country," he said, slowly, "and yet you live here all the year round?"
"Ah, that's the very reason," she said, lightly. "People always tell you that you don't appreciate your blessings; but how can you reasonably be expected to, when you don't have any voice in choosing them?"
"If you did, you probably wouldn't like them any better," he retorted. "And it would be more annoying to think that you had had a voice in the matter and had chosen wrong."
"Perhaps," said Elizabeth, "but I should like to make the experiment." And she stared again thoughtfully at the feathery forms of the ferns.
"Well, if you had your choice," said Gerard, lazily, "what would you choose as an improvement on the present state of things?"