She laughed. “I could tell the sea, and the sea could tell you.”
Secret de Polichitielle! Had she not been telling him all the time, as implicitly as maidenhood could tell man, of the great and wonderful adventure of her soul? He was exquisitely near,—that he knew,—nearer, indeed, to the roots of her being than the leonine hero of her dreams. He alone of mortals was privileged to receive and treasure the overflow of her heart. With him as joint trustee was the eternal ocean. He winced at the irony of it all.
Presently she asked:
“Have you ever loved any one?”
He answered as he had done years before:
“I have loved dreams.”
She retorted in his own words:
“One can't marry a dream.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“You will love some one some day, and then you will want to marry her,” she continued, with her direct simplicity. “And when you do, you 'll come and tell me, dear, for I shall understand.”
“I 'll tell you, Stellamaris,” he promised. Then he sprang to his feet. The pain had grown intolerable, “We have n't seen the giraffes,” said he.