“What sort of advice?” Alan asked.
Michael took this for assent, and plunged in.
“Let her alone,” he adjured his friend. “Let her absolutely alone. She’s very young, you know, and you’re not very old. Let her alone for at least a year. I suggest two years. Don’t see much of her, and don’t let her think you care. That would interest her for a week, and really, Alan, it’s not good for Stella to think that everybody falls in love with her. I don’t mind about Maurice. It would do him good to be turned down.”
“Would he be?” demanded Alan gloomily.
“Of course, of course ... it seems funny to be talking to you about love ... you used to be so very scornful about it.... I expect you know you’ll fall in love pretty deeply now.... Alan, I’m frightfully keen you should marry Stella. But let her alone. Don’t let her interfere with your cricket. Don’t take up golf on account of her.”
Michael was so much in earnest with his exhortation to Alan that he picked up a meringue and was involved in the difficulties of eating it before he was aware he was doing so. Alan began to laugh, and the heavy airs of disappointment and hopelessness were lightened.
“It’s funny,” said Michael, “that I should have an opportunity now of talking to you about love and cricket.”
“Funny?” Alan repeated.
“Don’t you remember three years ago on the river one night how I wished you would fall in love, and you said something about it being bad for cricket?”