“You know,” said Cicely Voile, “you’re a great relief.”
Her companion opened one eye.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t make love.”
Captain Toby Rage folded his hands upon his stomach and regarded the
blue heaven. This the April sun had to himself and, making the most of
his monarchy, set the whole firmament ablaze.
A mile away the Atlantic simmered contentedly—a rolling, laughing
steppe of blue and silver; the lazy murmur of its surf gladdened the
ear. To the left the mountain-sides smoked in the heat, the comfortable
haze blurring their grandeur to beauty. To the right the coast of France
danced all the way to Biarritz, her gay green frock flecked with the
dazzling white of villas, edged by the yellow road that sweeps to Spain.
Behind, the countryside, a very Canaan, basked in the earnest of summer,
peaceful and big with promise of abundance to come.
From the moor where the two were sitting all these things could be
enjoyed. It was, indeed, a superb withdrawing-room, for, while an
occasional snarl told of a car flying on the broad highway, no one
essayed the by-road which led to the yellow broom.
“The art of life,” said Toby, “is to be fancy-free.”
Cicely Voile clapped her sweet-smelling hands.
“We’re going to get on—you and I,” she cried excitedly. “I can see
that.”
“Why?”—suspiciously.
“Because our outlook’s the same. Think of the friendships that have been
wrecked by love.”
Captain Rage groaned.
“Don’t,” he said. “It’s too awful. But I’m thankful you see my point.
Conceive some cheerful little playground—Honolulu, for
instance—peopled by an equal number of youths and maidens, all
reasonably attractive and all proof against affection.”
“I can’t,” said Cicely Voile. “It’s too—too dazzling. Never mind. Go
on.”
“Well, what a time they’d all have. No jealousies, no heart-burnings, no
schemings, no inconvenience. . . .”
“I can see,” said Cicely, “that you have been through the hoop.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, isn’t it a curse?” said Rage heartily. “When I look back and
think of what I suffered, I go all goose-flesh. Turning out when I
wanted to stay at home, staying up when I wanted to go to bed, going to
plays I didn’t want to see, sloshing money about, writin’ letters,
travellin’. . . . I tell you, Love’s a mug’s game. It’s—it’s buying
trouble at a top price. That’s the wicked part. If you must buy trouble,
you may as well get it cheap. But Love’s a disease. One becomes
temporarily insane. I’d a very nice Rolls then, and I actually let her
drive it.” He sighed memorially. “It was never the same car again.”
“That,” said Cicely, “was probably imagination. Still, I know what you
mean. The misery I went through, trying to be in time! Alfred couldn’t
bear being late.”
“Exactly,” said Rage. “Yet I’ll bet he used to wait by the hour, poor
devil. I know. I’ve had some. I tell you, Love’s a disease.”
He sighed comfortably, settling his head upon its pillow of broom.
Cicely regarded him, speechless with indignation.