"That," I said, "as I understand it, is the province of poetry—and also, perhaps, its test."
"It has somewhat the same effect on me that saying my prayers has. I believe in something infinitely good and pure and blessed. It soothes me. I get into a better frame of mind."
"I should think your frame of mind was always 'a better frame,'" I said, edging toward the personal compliment and yet feeling as though I were endangering a beautiful dream.
"Oh! you don't know how worse I can be—how angry—how savage."
"Terribly so, I should think. You look like an ogress."
"I feel like one sometimes, too," she nodded. "I can be one when I have the provocation."
"As—for example?"
"Well, let me see?—Well,—for example, once—oh! quite a time ago—it was just after I met you—the very next day—" (My heart bounded that she could remember the very next day after meeting me—and should set dates by that important event. I wanted to say, that is the beginning of my era; but I feared)—"I got into a dreadful passion—I was really ferocious."
"Terrible," I jested. "I suppose you would have poisoned your slaves, like the old Roman Empress—What was her name?"
"I was angry enough."