A woman! that is what one wants—that’s all. Birth, brains, accomplishments—pshaw! vanities! community of interest—sympathy of soul? mere dialectics! That’s not love.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
What is, then?
GERALD.
It defies analysis. You can’t put love into a crucible. You only know that there is something empty in you; and you don’t know what fills it; but that’s love. There’s no mistake about the real thing.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Is she good-looking?
GERARD.
In my eyes.
MRS. SYLVESTER.