Stafford seemed willing, even anxious, to pursue the subject. The regimen at the Retreat was no doubt severe.
"What do you mean by coming to my senses?"
"Why, doing what any man does when he finds he's in love—barring a sound reason against it."
"And that is?"
"Try his luck. You needn't look at me. I've tried my luck before now, and it was damned bad luck. So here I am, a musty old curmudgeon; and there's Ayre, a snarling old cur!"
"I don't bore you about it?"
"No, I like jawing."
"Well then, I was going to say, of course you don't know how it struck me."
"Yes, I do, but I don't think any the better of it for that."
"You knew about my vow? I suppose you think that—"