"You do not answer," continued the lady: "I am afraid we do not ride fast enough for you. Now, what is it makes you so anxious to run forward to Venice? Now, I warrant it is some of the beautiful black eyes of the City of the Sea."
"No, indeed, it is not," replied Edward. "I never was in Venice in my life."
"Well," she continued, "love of some kind, at all events. Nothing but love could make a man in such a hurry. Now, tell me what kind of love it is."
"Why, the most extraordinary love in the world," answered Edward. "The love of a man for his wife,—a love they recognise little in France, not at all in Italy, and so dilute in Turkey that it is not worth having."
"Very marvellous love indeed," replied the lady. "Yet I think if I were a man, and were married, I should love my wife better than you do."
"I defy you," said Edward, laughing.
"Now, I will catechize you," returned the lady. "Do you think of her every day?"
"Every hour, every moment," said Edward.
"Do you make her your chief object in life?—pray for her, work for her?"
"Every thing else in life," said Edward, "is but valuable to me as it has reference to her. Ambition becomes splendid when I think it may elevate her. Money, which is but dross, seems to gain real worth if she is to share it."