“It may,” I remarked, “affect you in this extraordinary way, but surely
it is not so with most people?”
“Perhaps not,” George conceded. “Most people are cold-blooded asses.”
“Very likely the explanation lies in that fact,” said I.
“I didn’t mean you, old chap,” said George, with a penitence which
showed that he had meant me.
“Oh, all right, all right,” said I.
“But when a man’s really far gone there’s nothing else in the world but
it.”
“That seems to me not to be a healthy condition,” said I.
“Healthy? Oh, you old idiot, Sam! Who’s talking of health? Now, only
last night I met her at a dance. I had five dances with her--talked to
her half the evening, in fact. Well, you’d think that would last some
time, wouldn’t you?”
“I should certainly have supposed so,” I assented.
“So it would with most chaps, I dare say, but with me--confound it, I
feel as if I hadn’t seen her for six months!”
“But, my dear George, that’s surely rather absurd? As you tell me, you
spent a long while with the young person--”
“The--young person!”
“You’ve not told me her name, you see.”
“No, and I shan’t. I wonder if she’ll be at the Musgraves’ tonight!”
“You’re sure,” said I soothingly, “to meet her somewhere in the course
of the next few weeks.”
George looked at me. Then he observed with a bitter laugh:
“It’s pretty evident you’ve never had it. You’re as bad as those chaps
who write books.”
“Well, but surely they often describe with sufficient warmth
and--er--color--”
“Oh, I dare say; but it’s all wrong. At least, it’s not what I feel.
Then look at the girls in books! All beasts!”
George spoke with much vehemence; so that I was led to say:
“The lady you are preoccupied with is, I suppose, handsome?”
George turned swiftly round on me.
“Look here, can you hold your tongue, Sam?”