When she came back to my room, which was half an hour after, she was dressed to go out, in a new hat and pelisse of green silk, with a plume of the same. With her bright color, it was very becoming to her.
"I have just got these home. William just hates me in green, but I would have them. They make one think of fern-leaves and the deep woods, don't they?" said she, standing before the mirror with childish admiration of her own dress.
She turned slowly round, and faced me.
"Now I suppose you would dress up in a blue bag, if your husband liked to see you in it?"
I said I supposed so, too.
"That's because you love him, and know that he loves you!"
"I am sure, you may say one is true of yourself," said I, surprised at her knitted brow and flushed cheek.
"What was that you were reading last night in Plato's Dialogues? What does he say is real love? for the body or the soul?"
I was confounded. For I had never supposed she listened to a word that was read.
"If any one has been in love with the body of Alcibiades, that person has not been in love with Alcibiades," said she, reciting from memory.