“Most truly I love him.”
“Well, what is the story? How mysterious you are!”
“Yes, I am glad,” continued David, speaking more to himself than to me. “I suppose I ought to be quite glad—to have no distrust. How faithless Amy would call me!”
When he mentioned Amy, I knew he had forgotten my presence—the name made me patient. I waited quietly for his next remark.
As I have said, he was a man of few words. His ideas moved slowly, and his language hardly came fluently.
“There are two kinds of love,” he began, still in his indirect way. “There is the love that thinks the object it loves perfection, and will see no fault in it.”
“Yes,” I interrupted, enthusiastically; “I know of that love—it is the only kind worth having.”
“I cannot agree with you, dear. That love may be deep and intense, but it is not great. There is a love which sees faults in the object of its love, but loves on through all. Such—”
“Such love I should not care for,” I interrupted.
“Such love I could not live without, Gwladys. Such is the Divine love.”