They remained silent; Rita lay in the shadow of the maples, eyes closed;
Valerie plaited her grass stems with absent-minded industry.
"I never yet wished to marry a man," she observed, presently.
Rita made no response.
"Because," continued the girl with quaint precision, "I never yet wanted anything that was not offered freely; even friendship. I think—I don't know—but I think—if any man offered me love—and I found that I could respond—I think that, if I took it, I'd be contented with love—and ask nothing further—wish nothing else—unless he wanted it, too."
Rita opened her eyes.
Valerie, plaiting her grass very deftly, smiled to herself.
"I don't know much about love, Rita; but I believe it is supreme contentment. And if it is—what is the use of asking for more than contents one?"
"It's safer."
"Oh—I know that…. I've read enough newspapers and novels and real literature to know that. Incidentally the Scriptures treat of it…. But, after all, love is love. You can't make it more than it is by law and custom; you can't make it less; you can't summon it; you can't dismiss it…. And I believe that I'd be inclined to take it, however offered, if it were really love."
"That is unmoral, dear," said Rita, smiling.