is what all you people call love; I am content enough to have no knowledge of it———"
"Good gracious, Hilda!" said Madame Mila, with wide-open eyes of absolute amazement; "you talk as if you were one of the angry husbands in a comedy of Feuillet or Dumas. I don't think you know anything about it at all; how should you? You only admire yourself, and like art and all that kind of thing, and are as cold as ice to everybody. 'À la place du cœur, vous n'avez qu'un caillou;' I've read that somewhere."
"'Elle n'a qu'un écusson,'" corrected Lady Hilda, her serenity returning. "If Hugo had known much about women he would have said—'qu'un chiffon;' but perhaps a dissyllable wouldn't have scanned———"
"You never will convince me," continued Madame de Caviare, "that you would not be a happier woman if you had what you call senses and the rest of it. One can't live without sensations and emotions of some sort. You never feel any except before a bit of Kronenthal china or a triptych of some old fogey of a painter. You do care awfully about your horses to be sure, but then as
