‘Twenty?’
‘Well—rather more than that, I think.’
‘Thirty?’
‘Quite thirty.’
‘Forty?’
‘Not more than forty, I think.’
Maude sat aghast at the depths of his depravity.
‘Let me see: you are twenty-seven now, so you have loved four women a year since you were seventeen.’
‘If you reckon it that way,’ said Frank, ‘I am afraid that it must have been more than forty.’
‘It’s dreadful,’ said Maude, and began to cry.