Wilfred felt his lips growing tight. “Passion does not always come from the heart,” he said. “As I understand it.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is infatuation.”
At that word Elaine ran up her eyebrows in two little peaks; but Wilfred somehow found the courage to face her out. A silence succeeded, which shook him badly. A gush of foolish, emotional speech filled his mouth like warm blood. He grimly swallowed it, waiting.
“Suppose one experienced a violent passion,” asked Elaine, with a casual air which concealed nothing from the man who loved her, “how on earth would one know whether it was love or infatuation?”
“By the quality of the object,” he said quickly. “If it was worthy. . . .”
“That’s nonsense!” she said scornfully. “If you were infatuated you would think the object was glorious anyhow.”
Wilfred shook his head. “That’s where the heart comes in. No matter how blinded we may be, we each have a voice in our breasts that whispers the truth. Only we don’t want to listen.”
“You must have a well-trained little prompter!” said Elaine.
He looked at her. He could bear her gibes. He held his tongue, waiting for the right word.