"Well, my dear, don't you see—there's two things."
"What ought a chap to do who,—I've consulted men of the world, and yet I think you know best. You're so celebrated as a confidante."
"Well?" said his sister.
"What ought a chap to do—who ... oh, well ... if a chap—say a chap has—well—a girl, say, frightfully keen on him (for the sake of the argument), and she's a decent sort of girl, and at the same time the poor chap is frightfully keen on another girl, who is frightfully keen on another chap—who is a very decent chap too, mind you ... what ought he to do?"
"Which chap, Savile?"
"Oh, don't be so muddle-headed, Felicity! Pull yourself together, can't you? Me, of course!"
"Oh, you!"
"Yes."
"You mean Dolly Clive is in love with you" (Savile winced at the feminine explicitness), "and you are in love with some one else, and it's quite hopeless."