the Bull of Basan?" George does not answer, he appears to be thinking; so if I expect to be assured that my laughter is always low and sweet, I am mistaken.
"Do you know," I say, feeling rather ruffled, "that you never pay me any compliments now? No one ever paid me any but you, and besides amusing me, I got quite to like them!"
"When a man is profoundly in love he does not make pretty speeches," says George; "he feels them, but he does not speak them. It would be like saying to the sun, 'How warm you are!' when he is warmed through and through with its rays. I don't think I ever paid you compliments."
"George," I say presently, as we walk noiselessly over the close-cropped, sweet meadows, "do you not think that a woman may have several fancies and only one heart? or do you believe her heart and her fancy always go together?"
"What put that into your head?" he asks, opening his eyes.
"Nothing!" I answer dreamily; "only I can understand a man and woman falling out terribly, because he thought she loved some one better than she did him, when in reality her heart belonged perfectly to that man, although a fleeting fancy for some one else had for the time being obscured her vision: there would be misery and confusion come, would there not? But after all, it is the heart that stands, the fancy dies away like a puff of summer wind."
"Have a fancy for who you like, dear," says George; "only keep your heart for me!"
"If ever I had a fancy for any one," I say, looking out at the far away, blooming hills, "I think it must have been in dreamland. Bah! we are talking nonsense. Do you know that I shall look such an old guy, if I go away? look at this frock!" And I hold out the skirt of my modest garment for inspection.
"Well! and what is the matter with it?"
