He shook his head.
“Look at that splendid Gloire de Dijon,” he said. “It may be very stupid, very dull, very wicked, as far as we know. But that does not concern us. It is beautiful, and its beauty does not, anyhow, touch us only superficially, but very deeply. Does not beauty stir in you some chord of wider vibration than any purely intellectual quality? Some—how shall I say it?—some longing for the infinite?”
Again their talk had taken the bit in its teeth, and as she gently fingered the rose he had pointed to, her lips drew themselves into a quivering curve of extraordinary tenderness.
“Ah, yes, yes,” she said. “I could kneel down and thank God for it.”
He looked at her gravely, remembering the conclusion of their walk the afternoon before.
“You are very much to be envied,” he said. “With my whole heart I congratulate you.”
She raised her head, dismissing the gravity of the last minute.
“Ah, but the Sunday-school,” she said.
“But I envy that, too,” said he. “It, as well as you, has its beaux jours. You would not grudge it them?”
She laughed.