“What is that?”
“One who makes a jest of love.”
“And what is love?”
“Your heart will tell you some day.”
“Yet I would have your heart tell me now.”
“Love is a rosy pain of the heart.”
“Then I do not feel it,” she said, stretching out her little, pink fingers over her heart, “for mine thrills and beats with joyous palpitations. Yet”—she looked up at him seriously—“perhaps that, too, is another of the moods of this love.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “Love is capricious.”
Hyacinth sighed and looked out wistfully across the bay.
“It is a strange word,” she said, vaguely.