The child was right.
One maintained that love was friendship continued, the allegory of a metaphor.
“Love is like a dizziness, confound it, ’t wont let a fellow go about his business,” said George.
And so the merry party kept rattling on;—nonsense, to be sure—but what is this world good for without some nonsense?
The group at length became divided—the conversation less general. Edward and Clara sat over on a lounge by the window, talking with each other in a very animated strain. The rest cut up in small cliques were equally full of life. Frank alone seemed sad. His buoyant spirits had deserted him. He rose to go.
“What, off again, my brother?”
“Yes, I am going in search of that cottage you described. I am impatient to see the lovely fairy it contains.”
“Then you never have seen her? Say not no,” said Clara, shaking the fore-finger of her little hand at him.
Frank was off. He mounted his horse, and as though he were on his way to his last ride.
“I have come to say, good-by,” said he, on entering the conservatory at the cottage, where Agnes was tying up her flowers.