“I will make you both a present of her address,” said Lily. “She will not see you; you can both write volumes to her, and you, Mr. George, will at once rush by the night or the morning train to see her.”
“No, time and distance will merely mellow her affection for me. I am very fond of her, too fond, for I love her.”
“Dear me,” said Lily. “In what way do you love her? Hopelessly, madly, platonically, or matrimonially?”
“Not matrimonially, because I could never tire of her; not platonically, platonic people are too clever and enjoy their experiences too much to be indifferent, but they never want to kiss each other. I might—”
“These are revelations,” said Mr. Herbert.
“Go on,” commanded Lily.
“I can’t. Launa is perfect. I fear she does not love me. When I call her Launa, her eyelids never quiver. Did you ever quiver, Mrs. Herbert?”
“Never.”
“You are intellectual. I am going to write a book and call it ‘Marriage.’ There will be various assortments in it. Platonic matrimony is interesting.”
“Very,” said Lily.