“Perhaps you have none at all.”
“Perhaps not. I suppose our neighbours are ‘them that we love that love us,’ so the old toast says. Are they not?”
“And those whom we ought to love, I fancy,” suggested Constance.
“But we ought to love our enemies. What a neighbourly world it is, and how full of love it should be!”
“Fortunately, love is a vague word.”
“Have you never tried to define it?” asked the young man.
“I am not clever enough for that. Perhaps you could.”
George looked quickly at the young girl. He was not prepared to believe that she made the suggestion out of coquetry, but he was not old enough to understand that such a remark might have escaped from her lips without the slightest intention.
“I rather think that definition ends when love begins,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “All love is experimental, and definition is generally the result of many experiments.”
“Experimental?”