Frank knelt down in front of her and kissed her hands. She had sweet little plump hands, very soft and velvety.
‘You make me feel such a brute,’ said he. ‘Anyhow, I love you now with all my heart and mind and soul.’
‘Forty-firstly and lastly,’ she sobbed, half laughing and half crying. Then she pulled his hair to reassure him.
‘I can’t be angry with you,’ said she. ‘Besides, it would be ungenerous to be angry when you tell me things of your own free will. You are not forced to tell me. It is very honourable of you. But I do wish you had taken an interest in me first.’
‘Well, it was not so fated. I suppose there are some men who are quite good when they are bachelors. But I don’t believe they are the best men. They are either archangels upon earth—young Gladstones and Newmans—or else they are cold, calculating, timid, un-virile creatures, who will never do any good. The first class must be splendid. I never met one except in memoirs. The others I don’t want to meet.’
Women are not interested in generalities.
‘Were they nicer than me?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
‘Those forty women.’
‘No, dear, of course not. Why are you laughing?’