"And no wonder," riposted John, with a flowery bow.

"You're very good--but you confuse the issue," said she. "In my time the
world was young and romantic. In this age of prose and prudence--_is_ it
a woman?"

"The world is still, is always, young and romantic," said John,
sententious. "I can't admit that an age of prose and prudence is
possible. The poetry of earth is never dead, and no more is its folly.
The world is always romantic, if you have the three gifts needful to
make it so."

"_Is_ it a woman?" repeated Lady Blanchemain.

"And the three gifts are," said he, "Faith, and the sense of Beauty, and
the sense of Humour."

"And I should have thought, an attractive member of the opposite sex,"
said she. "_Is_ it a woman?"

"Well," he at last replied, appearing to take counsel with himself, "I
don't know why I should forbid myself the relief of owning up to you
that in a sense it is."

"Hurray!" cried she, moving in her seat, agog, as one who scented her
pet diversion. "A love affair! I'll be your confidante. Tell me all
about it."

"Yes, in a sense, a love affair," he confessed.