This was her great argument which she always trotted out, because she found that I had usually no answer to give to it. But this time I said:
'Our hearts not evil? Say yours: but as to mine you know nothing, Leda.'
The semicircles under her eyes had that morning, as often, a certain moist, heavy, pensive and weary something, as of one fresh from a revel, very sweet and tender: and, looking softly at me with it, she answered:
'I know my own heart, and it is not evil: not at all: not even in the very least: and I know yours, too.'
'You know mine!' cried I, with a half-laugh of surprise.
'Quite well,' says she.
I was so troubled by this cool assurance, that I said not a word, but going to her, handed her the baited flight, swivel-trace, and line, which she paid out; then I got back again almost into the bows.
After a ten-minutes I spoke again:
'So this is news to me: you know all about my heart. Well, come, tell me what is in it!'
Now she was silent, pretending to be busy with the trail, till she said, speaking with low-bent face, and a voice that I could only just hear: