“What comfort is there in mere splendid misery, and in such words?”
“How should I love you best?”
“Ah, Pelleas, ask your own heart.”
The man was an impossible being for mere mortal argument. He seemed to bear spiritual pinions that tantalised the intelligence of the heart. Igraine felt herself adrift and beaten, and she was hopeless of him to the core.
“Think you I shall be a saint, Pelleas,” she said, “when you have given me back to myself?”
“I shall pray for you.”
“And for a devil!”
She gave a shrill laugh, and twined her hair about her wrist.
“Ah, Pelleas! you know not what you do.”
“Too well, Igraine.”