STRANGE, BUT TRUE
The other day my young cousin George lunched with me. He is a cheery youth, and a member of the University of Oxford. He refreshes me very much, and I believe that I have the pleasure of affording him some matter for thought. On this occasion, however, he was extremely silent and depressed. I said little, but made an extremely good luncheon. Afterwards we proceeded to take a stroll in the Park.
“Sam, old boy,” said George suddenly, “I’m the most miserable devil alive.”
“I don’t know what else you expect at your age,” I observed, lighting a cigar. He walked on in silence for a few moments.
“I say, Sam, old boy, when you were young, were you ever—?” he paused, arranged his neckcloth (it was more like a bed-quilt—oh, the fashion, of course, I know that), and blushed a fine crimson.
“Was I ever what, George?” I had the curiosity to ask.
“Oh, well, hard hit, you know—a girl, you know.”
“In love, you mean, George? No, I never was.”
“Never?”