“What is that parcel you are carrying?” he asked, when they were near the lake’s border.
“Oh, I thought perhaps I’d do some sketching when we got to the lake. We can sit down, and you may smoke while I work. No, thanks: I can easily carry it myself.”
They walked on in silence. Then:
“You were talking about waste,” she said.
“Was I? Yes. But it’s a dreary subject. I was lecturing you, really, you know; for you’re wasting my life as well as your own. You’re destroying these days. It’s just a week since you told me you loved me.”
“Yes, but I said ‘if you call it love.’ To you love is one thing; to me, another.”
“Why? What do you imagine is my idea of love?”
“Just appetite—the satisfaction of an appetite.”
“And your idea?”