"She is very pretty; and absolutely a lady—and straight, and all that."
"Then let it alone," counselled Bob Purnett.
"I can't help it, old chap." Again the primitive note—the cry that there are limits to human endurance! Godfrey had not meant to utter it. The saying of it was an illumination to himself. Up to now he had thought that he could help it—and would, if he were faced with theories and irrationality.
"Let's go to a Hall?" Bob suggested.
"I'd like a quiet evening and just a jaw."
Bob looked gravely sympathetic. "Oh, you've got it in the neck!" he said, with a touch of reverent wonder in his voice—something like the awe that madmen inspired in our forbears. Godfrey was possessed!
"Yes, I have—and I don't know what the deuce to do."
"Well, what the deuce are you to do?" asked Purnett. His healthy, ruddy, unwrinkled face expressed an honest perplexity. "Must be a rum little card—isn't she?"
"I can't help it, Bob."
"Dashed awkward!"