"I—oh—well, what is romance? Of course, it is quite possible to fall in love in New York—although anything but the ideal setting. But romance!"
"Surely the sense of mystery between a man and woman irresistibly attracted may be as provocative in a great city as in a feudal castle surrounded by an ancient forest—or on one of my Dolomite lakes. Is it not that which constitutes romance—the breathless trembling on the verge of the unexplored—that isolates two human beings as authentically—I am picking up your vocabulary—as if they were alone on a star in space? Is it not possible to dream here in New York?—and surely dreams play their part in romance." Her fingertips, moving delicately on the surface of her lap, had a curious suggestion of playing with fire.
"One needs leisure for dreams." He stood up suddenly and leaned against the mantelpiece. The atmosphere had become electric. "A good thing, too, as far as some of us are concerned. The last thing for a columnist to indulge in is dreams. Fine hash he'd have for his readers next morning!"
"Do you mean to say that none of you clever young men fall in love?"
"Every day in the week, some of them. They even marry—and tell fatuous yarns about their babies. No doubt some of them have even gloomed through brief periods of unreciprocated passion. But they don't look very romantic to me."
"Romance is impossible without imagination, I should think. Aching for what you cannot have or falling in love reciprocally with a charming girl is hardly romance. That is a gift—like the spark that goes to the making of Art."
"Are you romantic?" he asked harshly. "You look as if born to inspire romance—dreams—like a beautiful statue or painting—but mysterious as you make yourself—and, I believe, are in essence—I should never have associated you with the romantic temperament. Your eyes—as they too often are—— Oh, no!"
"It is true that I have never had a romance."
"You married—and very young."
"Oh, what is young love! The urge of the race. A blaze that ends in babies or ashes. Romance!"