“Tennyson speaks of them as 'tip-tilted like the petals of a rose.'”
“How nice of him! Do you think he meant my sort?” She rubbed it again, but in a kinder fashion; then looked again at Barbara's photograph. “Who is she?”
“She was Miss Hasluck,” I answered; “she is the Countess Huescar now. She was married last summer.”
“Oh, yes, I remember; you told us about her. You were children together. But what's the good of your being in love with her if she's married?”
“It makes my whole life beautiful.”
“Wanting somebody you can't have?”
“I don't want her.”
“You said you were in love with her.”
“So I am.”
She handed me back the photograph, and I replaced it in my pocket.