"Not if all the world had seen the look," moodily.
"Poor Jack, you are very unlucky!" Her voice was full of pity. "I feel so sorry for you, it is all so impossible. And she loves you, too!"
"How do you know?"
"I looked at her while she was looking at you."
"You have wonderful eyes."
"So I have been told. I wonder why she gave you that withered and worm-eaten rose?"
"A whim," I said, staring at the rug. I wondered how she came to surmise that it was Gretchen's rose? Intuition, perhaps.
"Do you love her well enough," asked Phyllis, plucking the lace on her fan, "to sacrifice all the world for her, to give up all your own happiness that she might become happy?"
"She never can be happy without me—if she loves me as I believe." I admit that this was a selfish thought to express.
"Then, why is it impossible—your love and hers? If her love for you is as great as you say it is, what is a King, a Prince, or a principality to her?"