“You are sure, Pauline,” he asked, “that you are not bored yet with the country?”
“I am quite sure,” she answered.
Something in her tone puzzled him. He looked at her again, long and fixedly. Her eyes met his, they answered his unspoken question.
“I suppose,” she said, “that I should look happier. I have been content. I am content still. I suppose it is all one ought to expect from life.”
“There are other things,” he answered, “but not for us, Pauline—not yet.”
“Life is a very perplexing matter,” she declared.
He shook his head.
“There is no perplexity about it,” he declared. “Its riddle is easily enough solved. The trouble is that the fetters which bind us are sometimes beyond our power to break.”
“If we were free,” she murmured, “you and I know very well whither we should turn. And yet, Henry, are you sure, are you quite, quite sure that there is nothing in life greater even than love?”
“If there is,” he answered, “we will go in search of it, hand in hand, you and I together.”