“And what do you think now?”

“I think that I did not know what I was talking about.”

“I believe you were in love with Ned when you married him, and long enough before that, too.”

“Of course I loved him.  I love him still.”

“Do you, really?  To hear you, one would think that you only respected him as a superior.”

“You have no right to say that.  You dont understand.”

“Perhaps not.  Would you mind explaining?”

“I do not mean anything particular; but there are two kinds of love.  There is a love which one’s good sense suggests—­a sort of moral approval——­”

Elinor laughed.  “Go on,” she said.  “What is the other sort?”

“The other sort has nothing to do with good sense.  It is an overpowering impulse—­a craving—­a faith that defies logic—­something to look forward to feeling in your youth, and look back to with a kindling heart in your age.”

“Indeed!  Isnt the difference between the two sorts much the same as the difference between the old love and the new?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I will take another cup of tea.  You neednt stop flying out at me, though:  I dont mind it.”

“Excuse me.  I did not mean to fly out at you.”

“It’s rather odd that we so seldom meet now without getting on this subject and having a row.  Has that struck you at all?”

Marian turned to the fire, and remained silent.

“Listen to me, Marian.  You are in the blues.  Why dont you go to Ned, and tell him that he is a cast-iron walking machine, and that you are unhappy, and want the society of a flesh-and-blood man?  Have a furious scene with him, and all will come right.”

“It is very easy to talk.  I could not go to him and make myself ridiculous like that:  the words would choke me.  Besides, I am not unhappy.”

“What a lie!  You wicked woman!  A moment ago you were contemning all prudence; and now you will not speak your mind because you are afraid of being ridiculous.  What is that but observing the wind and regarding the clouds, I should like to know?”

“I wish you would not speak harshly to me, even in jest.  It hurts me.”

“Serve you right!  I am not a bit remorseful.  No matter:  let us talk of something else.  Where did those flowers come from?”

“Douglas sent them.  I am going to the theatre to-night; and I wanted a bouquet.”

“Very kind of him.  I wonder he did not bring it himself.  He rarely misses an excuse for coming.”

“Why do you say that, Nelly?  He comes here very seldom, except on Sunday; and that is a regular thing, just as your coming is.”

“He was here on Tuesday; you saw him at Mrs. Saunders’s on Wednesday; he was at your at-home on Thursday; and he sends a bouquet on Saturday.”

“I cannot help meeting him out; and not to invite him to my at-home would be to cut him.  Pray are you growing spiteful, like Mrs. Leith Fairfax?”