I've never come across a definition that satisfied me, though there are some very good ones"-- he glanced in the direction of his books.
"It's not altogether knowing the other person, perhaps--it's ignorance," she hazarded.
"Some authorities say it's a question of distance--romance in literature, that is--" "Possibly, in the case of art.

But in the case of people it may be--" she hesitated.
"Have you no personal experience of it ?" he asked, letting his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment.
"I believe it's influenced me enormously," she said, in the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some view just presented to them; "but in my life there's so little scope for it," she added.

She reviewed her daily task, the perpetual demands upon her for good sense, self-control, and accuracy in a house containing a romantic mother.

Ah, but her romance wasn't THAT romance.

It was a desire, an echo, a sound; she could drape it in color, see it in form, hear it in music, but not in words; no, never in words.