She drew a quick little sigh.
“Oh, dear me!” she murmured. “It is all very sad! In your outlook on life nothing seems good or commendable! What’s the good of living at all!”
He turned towards her, his eyes twinkling with unusual pleasantness.
“Dear child, I often ask myself that question!” he said. “And as yet I have found no answer. None of us asked to be born! Had I been consulted I should certainly have declined the honour! But there are certain compensations afforded us for the trouble of existence,—as I told you once before, we are allowed to experience pleasurable sensations which we call by pretty names—such as idealism, patriotism, conscience, honour, friendship, and—and love. I suppose”—here he hesitated—“I suppose love is really the most agreeable sensation of all! You remember when you quoted some lines of Keats to me on one occasion, you seemed to think so!”
“I think so still,” she replied, softly.
“I’m sure you do! You are unchanged in your sentiment—and for yourself it is a pity! But you are a woman, and it cannot be helped! Women overdo sentiment altogether—they live on it! A mistake—and yet—”
He stopped abruptly.
She looked at him.
“And yet?” she suggested.
“And yet? Well, I was about to say I should not like a woman without sentiment. For example,—if I had any sentiment for her, I should wish her to have sentiment for me!”