She smiled with her own peculiar expression,—wayward, yet warm.
"Oh, dear, no! nothing of the kind, I am sure. I cannot fancy the Chevalier in love even. It seems most absurd."
"I do not think that; he is too lovable not to be loved."
"And that is just why he never will love—to marry, I mean—until he has tried everything else and pleased himself in every manner."
"Maria, how do you know? And do you think he will marry one day?"
"Carl, I believe there is not anything he will not do; and yet he will be happy, very happy,—only not as he expects. I am certain the Chevalier thinks he should find as much in love as in music,—for himself, I mean. Now, I believe it would be nothing to him in comparison."
I could scarcely contain myself, I so sincerely felt that she was mistaken. But I seriously resolved to humor her, lest I should say too much, or she should say too little.
"Oh, of course! But I don't think he would expect to find more in love, because he knows how he is loved."
"Not how, Carl, only how much."
"But, Maria, I fancy he wants as much love as music; and that is plenty."