"Perhaps that is so, although even that needs qualifying."
"I know," she said, "but why not be frank about it both ways; that is precisely her situation as well as his. There ought to be less sentimental rubbish and more plain sense about all of it. Women would suffer less from shattered illusions, they would grow accustomed to reality, and be considerably less idiotic in their romantic caperings."
"I admit it," Lawrence said, smiling; "and yet"—he paused—"I want to be the maddest of romanticists, I want to say those things to the woman I love, I want to think them about her, I want to feel them all, all those dear, false romantic deceptions. I do, in fact, even though my brain agrees with you."
"So should I, and I would." Then she added softly under her breath, "I do."
Lawrence turned a little toward her, his fingers gripping the grass in front of him.
"Claire," he said slowly, "I—I want to say them, think them, believe them about and with you."
She did not move. Over her there swept a great joy, and her thinking stopped. She was feeling all the dear things she had just condemned, and she looked at her lover. He was blind. He could not see what was in her face, and he was not sure that he interpreted her silence correctly. He was waiting, anguishing, for her answer. She realized then what it was he needed more than he himself knew.
"Lawrence," she cried joyfully, slipping into his arms, "I know what you need, beloved!"
He laughed exultantly as he showered kisses upon her eagerly upturned face.
"I guess you do, sweetheart," he consented. "What is it?"