Here our young people spent the day; some sketched, some played croquet, some bathed in rocky inlets where the kingfisher screamed above them, some rowed to little craggy isles for wild roses, some fished, and then were taught by the boatmen to cook their fish in novel island ways. The morning grew more and more cloudless, and then in the afternoon a fog came and went again, marching by with its white armies, soon met and annihilated by a rainbow.
The conversation that day was very gay and incoherent,—little fragments of all manner of things; science, sentiment, everything: “Like a distracted dictionary,” Kate said. At last this lively maiden got Philip away from the rest, and began to cross-question him.
“Tell me,” she said, “about Emilia’s Swiss lover. She shuddered when she spoke of him. Was he so very bad?”
“Not at all,” was the answer. “You had false impressions of him. He was a handsome, manly fellow, a little over-sentimental. He had travelled, and had been a merchant’s clerk in Paris and London. Then he came back, and became a boatman on the lake, some said, for love of her.”
“Did she love him?”
“Passionately, as she thought.”
“Did he love her much?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then why did she stop loving him?”
“She does not hate him?”