“You would not understand. I have said all I am going to say.”
She straightened herself suddenly, and exclaimed, with a martyr-like air, “I have done nothing, yet I must suffer!”
He smoked on, sulking over his losses, yet consoled slightly by the presence of his wood-nymph in the tree overhead. Now she was leaning down again, hanging on by her hands and feet like a monkey, and dropping her light head to within a short distance of him. And what was she whispering with such delicate softness and grace? Something more about the money, and he threw away the stump of his cigar and ejaculated a prosaic “Hey?”
“’Steban,” she whispered again, “what is love?”
He was not in a condition of mind to expatiate on the beauties of the ardent attraction of one human being for another. Recognising this, she went on, in the same low voice: “You’re nothing but a plain, every-day, commonplace sort of man. There’s no poetry in your nature, never was, and never will be. _I_ will tell you what love is;” and moving farther out on the limb that she had chosen for her resting-place, she lightly jogged up and down, and began a joyful monologue.
“This is love. You are a girl not very old, not very young. You fall in love with a man. Some one else wants to marry you--a good many other persons want to marry you. You look at this one; you say, ‘No, my dear sir, you won’t do. You must have long arms and a short temper, and a bronze face and black eyes like shoe buttons. That light hair and that curly moustache won’t do; and to make you perfect, you must have a tiny, a very tiny, bald spot in the middle of your head. And you must be hateful and snappish sometimes, not always sweet and pleasant, because then I would get tired of you. And you must be poor and have to work hard just like a dog, because that will keep you out of mischief. And you mustn’t live in a grand house. No, no, sir, you are too rich. I could never take care of all that grand furniture. House-cleaning would quite upset me; and I hate fine clothes and white kid gloves. It would frighten me to own all those things; and I just detest sitting up straight and keeping my lips pursed up in a smile. I would rather have meadows, nice big meadows to run over, or the deck of a ship--’ ’Steban, what are you doing?” and she ceased her singsong revelation and her swinging at the same time, and glared down at him.