For an agonizing time, Anne tried to work out her definition of love. Was it Roy, in his splendour and austrian crystal glasses of imported wine-- her dark, handsome, and mysterious stranger? She didn't know.
To be honest she was much more sure of what it was not. In chronological order, her list of paramours: (1) pathetic Andrews in a one-sided crush that was easily ground to dust and swept away under prosaic practicalities (when Anne got over her insult of the immediate marriage to Nellie Bly, she thought ruefully that she had probably been the last chance for any spark of romantic soul to be ignited from the ash-heap hearts of the Andrews-line), and (2) the goggle-eyed Charlie Sloane that crushed Miss Ada's poor cushions ruthlessly, and without taste. These, at least, certainly were not her definition, either in noun or verb form. Judging from her progress she supposed that Mrs. Andrews had a point. If things went on like this she would probably let her beaux 'slip through her fingers,' as the madame had said in her particularly vulgar yet exact manner.
Hints hovered about the edge of her consciousness; it was by this means that she finally realized her answers, not in her earnest, forced, self-analysis. A letter which she would have liked to receive that Ruby Gillis had instead; the subtle touches of arms, electric brushes against each other on self-proclaimed platonic walks.
Written Aug. 06