But she, smiling also, shook her head.
“The best hour of the twenty-four—the Perfect Hour,” she insisted, “belongs to no specified period. Haven’t you discovered that?”
“What is the perfect hour?” he asked.
“The hour we most enjoy.”
An earnest look had come into her eyes, the quiet tones of her voice echoed this earnestness, accentuated it; he felt his own mood responding to the seriousness of hers. He liked her treatment of the subject. Never in all his life, he believed, and wondered whether she had been more fortunate in this respect, had he experienced the perfect hour. It was possible, he decided, to go through life without experiencing it.
“Your idea appeals pleasantly to the imagination,” he said; “but it deals with superlatives. My good hour is not to be despised; it’s within the grasp of all.”
“You think the other isn’t?” she asked.
“Well, of course, enjoyment is relative; but I imagine your idea of it embraces only the highest quality. Am I right?”
“In a sense, yes—though possibly our ideas of what is truly enjoyable differ substantially. For instance, beautiful scenery is to me entirely satisfying; so is a beautiful flower.”
“You will get that to-night,” he said—“the scenery, I mean. But you know the coast about here, I expect.”