“That’s the Duchess of Bermondsey and the Duke. They’re a regular young Darby and Joan, always together and always looking happy.”
“Perhaps they are happy——”
“Why not? There are many varieties of happiness. I was amused looking over a woman’s confession-book once, to find that no two of her friends had—or confessed to having—exactly the same idea of happiness. I wonder what yours is?”
She turned quickly to him, his question jarring on her present mood.
“I’m a woman and change my mind every five minutes.”
“But now,” he persisted. “If I could satisfy any wish you had—what would you wish?”
“I don’t wish for anything—I’m quite content.”
“Quite content? That means you’re miserable. Life wouldn’t be worth living if there wasn’t something left we want and can’t have. I always seem to be wanting something. I shall look on it as a sign of old age when I begin to be content. That’s the one drawback to this place—it’s perfect. There’s only one perfection I’ve ever found that I wouldn’t have altered.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”