“I'm so glad.” She turned to Herold. “Are you going to get married?”
“No,” smiled Herold.
Stella laughed. “What a relief! People do get married, you know, and I suppose both of you will have to one of these days, when you get older; but I don't like to think of it.”
“I don't believe I shall ever marry, Stellamaris,” said Herold.
“Why?”
Herold looked out to sea for a wistful instant. “Because one can't marry a dream, my dear.”
“I've married hundreds,” said Stella, softly.
If they had been alone together, they would have talked dreams and visions and starshine and moonshine, and their conversation would have been about as sensible and as satisfactory to each other and as intelligible to a third party as that of a couple of elves sitting on adjacent toadstools; but elves don't talk in the presence of a third party, even though he be John Risca and Great High Belovedest. And Stellamaris, recognizing this instinctively, turned her eyes quickly to Risca.
“And you, dear—will you ever marry?”
“Never, by Heaven!” cried John, with startling fervency.