"Perish?" exclaimed Diana, opening her eyes very wide. "Old pal, what do you mean?"
"I mean, Diana, that every one of the gifts that nature has lavished upon us—speech, sight, thought, motion—would all become atrophied and fail us utterly without use. The more we think and the more varied our thoughts, the greater our intellect; he that would win a race must exercise his muscles constantly, and this is especially true in regard to singing. Have you no thought, no will to become a great singer, Diana?"
"Yes," she answered softly, "I might ha' liked it once, but—not now—because, you see, I've found a—better thing, old pal, and nothing else matters!"
"Child," he questioned gently, "may I be privileged to know what this better thing may be?"
"Yes—yes!" she answered, stooping to catch his hand in her sweet, impulsive way and fondle it to her soft check.
"Love has come to us—Peregrine and me, he—knows at last, though I think you had guessed already because you played our love into your music, better—oh, better than I can ever tell it. Only it's here in my heart and in the sunshine; the birds sing of it and—and—oh, how can I think of anything else?"
The Ancient Person laid gentle hand upon her glossy hair. "Wait, dear child, and Love, I think, shall open to you a nobler living, shall give you pinions to soar awhile—"
"How—what d'ye mean, old pal?"
"Nay, ask Peregrine," answered his lordship, shaking his head. "Only very sure am I that love which is true and everlasting is infinitely unselfish."
And presently we took our leave, the Earl attending to see us into the phaeton and bid us adieu; and all the way back I must needs ponder his definition of love and wonder exactly what he had meant.