"There's nothing silly about it. Beauty is an attribute of the
divine. I worship it for its own sweet sake wherever I find it, in
pearl or opal, dewdrop or flower, the stars, or a woman's face or
form or eyes."

She lowered her head.

"Do you know the old legend of the opal?" he asked.

He took some stones from his pocket and held in the light an opal
of rare luster.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she cried.

"And its story is as beautiful as its face. Listen: A sunbeam
lingered under a leaf in the forest at sunset, loath to leave
so fair a spot, until the moon suddenly rose. Enraptured with the
shimmering beauty of a moonbeam, he stood entranced and trembling
and could not go. In ecstasy they met, embraced and kissed. The
sun sank and left him in her arms. The opal is the child of their
love. In its fair face is forever mingled the silver of the rising
moon and the golden glory of the sunset."

"I believe you made that up," she laughed.

"I wish I were poet enough."

"I had no idea you dreamed of such romantic nonsense."

"Yes, I dream many things. I had a funny dream about you the other