"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.
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