She laughed carelessly. "Oh, you'd not be interested. It would seem foolish to you."
"You're mistaken there," cried he. "The only thing that ever has interested me in life is dreams—and making them come true."
"But not my kind of dreams. The only kind I like are the ones that couldn't possibly come true."
"There isn't any dream that can't be made to come true."
She looked at him eagerly. "You think so?"
"The wildest ones are often the easiest." He had a moving voice himself, and it had been known to affect listening ears hypnotically when he was deeply in earnest, was possessed by one of those desires that conquer men of will and then make them irresistible instruments. "What is your dream?—happiness? . . . love?"
She gazed past him with swimming eyes, with a glance that seemed like a brave bright bird exploring infinity. "Yes," she said under her breath. "But it could never—never come true. It's too perfect."
"Don't doubt," he said, in a tone that fitted her mood as the rhythm of the cradle fits the gentle breathing of the sleeping child. "Don't ever doubt. And the dream will come true."
"You have been in love?" she said, under the spell of his look and tone.
He nodded slowly. "I am," he replied, and he was under the spell of her beauty.