"And Cyrus?" said I.
He looked at me in astonishment, then laughed queerly. "Oh, bother!" he exclaimed. "Cyrus doesn't disturb himself about her, or she about him—and you know it. Miss Talltowers, I love her—and she loves me."
His tone was convincing. But, after the first shock, I couldn't believe anything so preposterous. And I felt sorry for him—an honest, straight man, inexperienced with women, a fine mixture of gentleness and roughness, at once too much and too little of a gentleman for Nadeshda. If I had dared I should have tried to undeceive him. But I'm not so stupid as ever to try to make a person in love see the truth about the person he or she's in love with. So I simply said: "She is a most fascinating woman."
"You think I'm a fool," he went on, as if I hadn't spoken, "and I am a—a blankety-blank fool. Did you see her night before last in that dress of silver spangles like the wonderful skin of some amazing serpent? Did you see her eyes—her hair—the way her arms looked—as if they could wind themselves round a man's neck and choke him to death while her eyes were fooling him into thinking that such a death was greater happiness than to live?" He rolled this all out, then burst into a queer, crazy laugh. "You see, I'm a lunatic!" he said.
"Yes, I see it," I replied cheerfully. "But why do you rave to me?"
"Because I—we—have got to tell somebody, and you're the only person in Washington that I know that's both sensible and experienced, wise enough to understand, beautiful enough to sympathize, and young enough to encourage."
That was rather good for a man who had had less than a month's real experience with women, wasn't it? I recognized Nadeshda's handiwork, and admired.
"Miss Talltowers," he went on, "I am going to make a fool of myself, and she's going to help me."
"In what particular sort of folly are you about to embark?" said I.