"That is Tennyson," she said.
"Yes—that is Tennyson—the last great poet England can boast," he answered. "The poet who hated hate and loved love."
"All poets are like that," she murmured.
"Not all, Mary! Some of the modern ones hate love and love hate!"
"Then they are not poets," she said. "They would not see any beauty in that lovely sky—and they would not understand——"
"Us!" finished Angus. "And I assure you, Mary at the present moment, we are worth understanding!"
She laughed softly.
"Do we understand ourselves?" she asked.
"Of course we don't! If we did, we should probably be miserable. It's just because we are mysterious one to another, that we are so happy. No human being should ever try to analyse the fact of existence. It's enough that we exist—and that we love each other. Isn't it, Mary?"
"Enough? It is too much,—too much happiness altogether for me, at any rate," she said. "I can't believe in it yet! I can't really, Angus! Why should you love me?"