“Ah, Miss Le Breton, do not so tempt me! Was there ever yet an author who was not willing—too willing to talk of his books? My book is a love story, but possibly some readers will rebel against the doctrines on love therein put forth. Do you believe that love is eternal, Miss Le Breton? I mean, of course, the love of a man for a maid, or a maid for a man. The great fact of Love must be eternal; the love that is not of the earth earthy.”
He spoke eagerly and watched to see the effect of his words.
Her answer came in her slow, full contralto.
“No, I cannot think all human love eternal,” she said.
“And perhaps it is best so,” he rejoined. “For instance, when a man is young he sometimes loves—or thinks he loves—the woman who would not in the least suit him as a life-companion. You would not think it best that that love should be eternal, would you, Miss Le Breton? The man in my book spoils his life because he fell in love too young, and with the wrong woman. I am boring you, Miss Le Breton?”
“No, I am much—oh, very much interested,” she assured him.
“Well, my hero found out the mistake that he had made.”
“I hope it was in time to prevent the marriage?” put in Eweretta. “The real tragedy would have been their marriage.”
“How well you realize?” he exclaimed admiringly. “Really I don’t often find anyone to understand as you do. But I am a terrible egotist. Let us talk of something else. What interests you chiefly?”
“Oh, many things—everything almost,” she made answer.