Buttercups frowned. “A rather voluminous definition.”
“Rather luminous, I should call it.”
Frowning still, Buttercups threw out.
“While you were at it, it’s a pity you did not ask her what love is.”
But the sarcasm, if sarcasm it were, convulsed Aurelia. “Parsnips!” she delightedly exclaimed. “You’ll never believe it! She asked me!”
“Mistook you for an expert,” Buttercups, glowering at the beautiful, laughing girl snapped back. “What did you say?”
Aurelia, her eyes sparkling, her little white teeth visible, her little pink tongue also, looked about her, turned, went to the bench, got up on it and there, solemnly now as though on a platform, coughed.
“I said, that while from studies and statistics I was inclined to believe that, theoretically, love is a fermentation of the molecules of the imagination, actually it is the affection of somebody else.”
Blankly Buttercups stared. “I don’t understand that.”