"I never in all my life knew anything so exquisite as this particular English summer," I replied.
"I suppose it is unusually fine weather for the time of year," said Fay, with a sly smile.
"It is not on the weather that this summer bases its claim to super-excellence," I explained.
"Indeed: on the circumstances then, I suppose?"
"No, on the company. I have arrived at the interesting conclusion that a summer minus you is not really a summer at all, only a sort of dress-rehearsal of the real performance."
"I see," said Fay; "one swallow does not make a summer, but one Wildacre does."
"One Fay Wildacre," I corrected her. "Frank alone would only be able to make a spring: plenty of promise but no fulfilment, and a cold wind at the back of the sunshine."
Fay nodded her pretty curly head. "That's rather a neat description of Frankie. Now you mention it, he is like a brilliantly sunny day with a cold wind in the background ready to pop round the corner at any moment and shrivel you up. Although Frankie is so adorable when he likes, I don't think he has got what people call a warm heart; do you?"
"I think he is very fond of you," I replied diplomatically.
"Of course he is, but that's different. You don't require a warm heart to be fond of your own people: that's just nature and habit. What I call a warm heart is the sort of heart that makes you adore your friends, and worship your lovers, and find the world well lost for somebody you've only met twice before."