"Although? Ah!" cried Dora, "you see that I was right after all. Well?"
And she eagerly waited to hear the explanation that should put an end to all her conjectures.
"Well, then, yes," said Philip resolutely, "there is something. Sometimes I feel I should like to do so much more for you than I have been able."
"What an idea! There is not a woman in the world with whom I should like to change places. How could I be happier than I am?"
"What is your definition of happiness?" said Philip, continuing to paint.
"For a woman," replied Dora, with warmth, "happiness consists in being loved by the man whom she loves and can be proud of; in being rich enough to afford all the necessary comforts of life, and poor enough to make pulling together a necessity; an existence hand in hand, side by side. And what is yours?"
"Well, I confess, I should like to be a little richer than that," said Philip, with a little amused smile.
"Ah! I see," exclaimed Dora sadly; "you are beginning to grow tired of this quiet life of ours. Take care, Philip, noise frightens happiness away. Happy the house that is hidden in the trees, as the nest in the thick of the hedges."
"My dear child, we have to live for the world a little."
"Excuse me if I do not understand you," said Dora; "I am only a woman. I can live for you, and for you alone. I know that love is not sufficient even for the most devoted and affectionate of husbands. A woman can live on love and die of it. That's the difference. Now, what is your definition of happiness?"