She laughed at him then, openly—a little fearless laugh of pure amusement. Here was a novel gambit! “I think,” he would begin, deceptively deprecatory; but he had never before said, “What do you think?”
He ignored her laughter, absently, as a nothing, a drift of down, a puff of smoke from the wind-teased fire. He was more deeply engaged. She had set him pondering—wondering—and now, with an amazing, wise simplicity that honoured him and her, he showed her where she had led him, stated his difficulty.
“Do you think it’s right to marry as people do abroad—arranged—you know, without falling in love?”
She was slow in answering. She had her hope to strangle—her hope, the child of her love. She had to bury it deep, to disown it utterly, as a crazed and shameful bastard. But she did answer at last, faithfully, as she would have had him answer her.
“It’s the unforgivable sin,” said Laura.
And he was not content. It was what he expected, what he wanted. It confirmed him, justified him, was his own definite belief. But it disappointed him. He had wanted opposition, that he might overcome it. Her certainty disconcerted him, caused him to feel curiously aggrieved. How could she be so sure?... One laid down hard and fast rules; but there would always be exceptional cases.... Was there, after all, no middle way?...
As if she had known his thoughts she began to speak her own, freely and easily, as they came to her. For she had gained something in the last minute, and she knew it. Beggared she might be—but she was free—free at last to be herself with Justin—hoping nothing—fearing nothing.
“After all,” she meditated, “you say ‘falling in love.’ But what do you mean? Where will you draw the line? What is love? Are there two people alive who mean precisely the same thing? And yet it is the same thing. Just as all the gods—are God. Manifested,” she smiled over her long words—“in endless diversity. Lancelot and Guinevere—Darby and Joan. But it’s all love.”
He half listened, her words interlacing his thought like woof threading a web. What, after all, did he mean—did he want?... Yesterday’s half forgotten verses flickered upon his mind—
Flower o’ the broom? Maybe....