“Well, what a time they’d all have. No jealousies, no heart-burnings, no schemings, no inconvenience. . . .”
“I can see,” said Cicely, “that you have been through the hoop.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, isn’t it a curse?” said Rage heartily. “When I look back and think of what I suffered, I go all goose-flesh. Turning out when I wanted to stay at home, staying up when I wanted to go to bed, going to plays I didn’t want to see, sloshing money about, writin’ letters, travellin’. . . . I tell you, Love’s a mug’s game. It’s—it’s buying trouble at a top price. That’s the wicked part. If you must buy trouble, you may as well get it cheap. But Love’s a disease. One becomes temporarily insane. I’d a very nice Rolls then, and I actually let her drive it.” He sighed memorially. “It was never the same car again.”
“That,” said Cicely, “was probably imagination. Still, I know what you mean. The misery I went through, trying to be in time! Alfred couldn’t bear being late.”
“Exactly,” said Rage. “Yet I’ll bet he used to wait by the hour, poor devil. I know. I’ve had some. I tell you, Love’s a disease.”
He sighed comfortably, settling his head upon its pillow of broom.
Cicely regarded him, speechless with indignation.
At length—