She believed him. We always do believe them when they tell us this, because we need so much to keep this happiness which is founded upon the shifting sands of lovers. “And you, my beautiful one, you do love me?” he asked, suddenly halting and swinging her in front of him. She laid her hand upon her breast, looked at him through a mist of tears. “Is this love?” she asked, as if her hand covered leaves and blossoms and singing birds. “Of course it is,” cried her high priest, clasping her and kissing her. “Are you sure?” she gasped, with another wide look of joyful fear. “Absolutely!” “But, George, how can you know for certain, if you’ve never loved before?” Sometimes I think for every woman love is an alarm bell which rings perpetually to disturb her peace. It really was a staggering question she had asked, and George staggered like a man. “You know what you feel is love, don’t you?” he evaded. “What I feel is terror and happiness.” “Well, that’s love for you. This is love for me,” he exclaimed, kissing her again. “And to know that you are mine entirely, aren’t you?” “Yes,” she whispered. The conversation of lovers in fiction rarely tallies with what they actually say to each other in real life. I have read the dialogue of many a brilliant courtship in a novel, but never as an eavesdropper or observer have I known two people in love to utter a single sentence which was sensible or that even escaped absurdity, if you repeated it along with other gossip you have to tell. And yet it is very important, this primer talk, these watching eyes of lovers who place the profoundest significance upon the most trivial act, or even the wavering of a glance between them. I merely say this in passing, as a challenge to the reader, who may feel a trifle let down, disappointed at the above record of what took place between George and Helen on that day. What I have written is the artless truth of love, not the fabricated philosophy of love, because there is no such philosophy. Love is a state of being beyond our academic powers to expound. It exists, it functions amazingly and that is all we know about it or ever will know about it, the passion-mongers and biologists to the contrary, notwithstanding. They shed no light on this phenomenon, only upon the obvious material results. They do in truth obscure it by gratifying your desire, dear reader, to indulge vicariously in something not suitable to the proper furnishing of your elegant mind. CHAPTER VII The ruins of an old iron foundry stood on this river road. The roof had fallen in long ago. The walls and gables, built of rough stone alone remained. Creeping vines covered them. The sun dipping low upon the horizon shone through the open places where windows had been. But the shadows were already deepening in the great, open doorway beside the road. Helen was for turning back now. She was all brisked up with the desire to hurry home with this sweet burden of happiness.