“What, to fall in love?” asked Lilly.
“Yes.”
“Then why not leave off trying! What do you want to poke yourself and prod yourself into love, for?”
“Because I'm DEAD without it. I'm dead. I'm dying.”
“Only because you force yourself. If you drop working yourself up—”
“I shall die. I only live when I can fall in love. Otherwise I'm dying by inches. Why, man, you don't know what it was like. I used to get the most grand feelings—like a great rush of force, or light—a great rush—right here, as I've said, at the solar plexus. And it would come any time—anywhere—no matter where I was. And then I was all right.
“All right for what?—for making love?”
“Yes, man, I was.”
“And now you aren't?—Oh, well, leave love alone, as any twopenny doctor would tell you.”
“No, you're off it there. It's nothing technical. Technically I can make love as much as you like. It's nothing a doctor has any say in. It's what I feel inside me. I feel the life going. I know it's going. I never get those inrushes now, unless I drink a jolly lot, or if I possibly could fall in love. Technically, I'm potent all right—oh, yes!”