I mean we see so much." He had looked at her a moment--and he well knew how she had struck him, in respect to the beautiful world, as one of the beautiful, the most beautiful things.

But what he had answered was: "You see too much--that's what may sometimes make you difficulties.

When you don't, at least," he had amended with a further thought, "see too little." But he had quite granted that he knew what she meant, and his warning perhaps was needless.
He had seen the follies of the romantic disposition, but there seemed somehow no follies in theirs--nothing, one was obliged to recognise, but innocent pleasures, pleasures without penalties.

Their enjoyment was a tribute to others without being a loss to themselves.

Only the funny thing, he had respectfully submitted, was that her father, though older and wiser, and a man into the bargain, was as bad--that is as good--as herself.
"Oh, he's better," the girl had freely declared "that is he's worse.
His relation to the things he cares for--and I think it beautiful--is absolutely romantic.