“Agreed,” she said. “I have given one such promise; let it serve for both; now for your question.”
“Ah!” replied Wulf cheerfully; “I am glad that Godwin went first, since it saves me words, at which he is better than I am.”
“I do not know that, Wulf; at least, you have more of them,” answered Rosamund, with a little smile.
“More perhaps, but of a different quality—that is what you mean. Well, happily here mere words are not in question.”
“What, then, are in question, Wulf?”
“Hearts. Your heart and my heart—and, I suppose, Godwin’s heart, if he has one—in that way.”
“Why should not Godwin have a heart?”
“Why? Well, you see just now it is my business to belittle Godwin. Therefore I declare—which you, who know more about it, can believe or not as it pleases you—that Godwin’s heart is like that of the old saint in the reliquary at Stangate—a thing which may have beaten once, and will perhaps beat again in heaven, but now is somewhat dead—to this world.”
Rosamund smiled, and thought to herself that this dead heart had shown signs of life not long ago. But aloud she said:
“If you have no more to say to me of Godwin’s heart, I will begone to read with my father, who waits for me.”