“Blame you? No. You love me—do you love me?—and women, thank God, are mostly constant.”
“Thank God,” she repeated.
She did not answer his question—to seek to acquire information was most simple.
“Love is all things—the joy of life—the sting of death,” he said.
“Friendship is a joy, too. It is like autumn after the midsummer heat is over. Do you not know the peace and stillness of a clear autumn day? There is a blue sky, and merely a suspicion of cold in the air. You know the air on a lake coming over a long sweep of country.”
She paused.
“There is a chill about autumn—a suspicion of indifference.”
“No, no,” she answered quickly. “What is the most perfect relationship in this world? Which is the happiest?”
“Who can tell? To me it is you; to you it is—I wish I could feel sure the stone of happiness you seek for is my love.”
She did not answer immediately.