Philip had stuck the bunch of pansies on the easel, his palette was ready, he was just going to begin.
"Come here," said he to Dora, "here, quite close—that's it. I can work so much better, darling, when you are near me. Look, the brush works already more easily, my hand is surer—there, that is good—splendid—I shall go ahead now."
Philip was in working mood, and Dora was beaming. She could have hugged him, and would not have been able to resist the temptation, but for the fear of hindering his progress. After a few minutes' silence, she burst out—
"Philip!"
"Yes, dearest," replied Philip, without withdrawing his eyes from his work.
"Don't you think ours is a very romantic life?"
"Very romantic? How do you mean?"
"Oh, I mean that we are so happy."
"Yes, but that is hardly what people call romance. A romantic life is an eventful life, and happy people have no events in their lives. I don't believe that cousin Gerald Lorimer, with all his imagination, could get a one-act play out of our lives. There is no plot to be found in them. To make a novel or a play, there must be intrigue, troubles, misunderstandings, moral storms. There are people who love storms. Some people only love the sea when it is in a fury. Are you fond of storms yourself?"
"Oh no," replied Dora; "I have no sea-legs. I love the life that I lead with you—and my enthusiasm for your art deepens my love for you every day."