“And he handed the toothpicks round.”
“So he did. I shall keep mine—die in defence of it. And you’ll find that horse’s name written on my heart. A horse-race at a wedding!—Oh, oh, I’m not complaining! It was all you promised, and more!”
“I thought perhaps you were disappointed,” Amory remarked.
“Good heavens, no! I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds! (But, of course, your aunt was charming.)... Isn’t Mr. Massey fond of the police sergeant!”
“Sickly sentiment, I call it,” said Amory abruptly.
“Oh no, not if you take it as part of the general show,” Cosimo explained. “Damon and Pythias, I suppose; not having a brother, can’t say. But the thing can’t be taken to bits. It was a perfect whole. I wonder what there is about a perfect whole that makes it far more than the sum of the parts?”
“Eh?... Oh yes, it is more,” said Amory.
“More?... Rather! Why, take it in art....”
“Don’t talk about art to-night, Cosimo, please,” she said. “You always give me so much to think of when you talk about art.”
“Tired?” said Cosimo solicitously, bending over the back of her chair.