"For a reason you can't understand, you old mole, burrowed down here under your paintings, and your fugues, and your dreary old German philosophers--because I love her; because I think of her from morning till night, and from night till morning again; because her bright face and her gay creamy skin come between me and those beastly old minutes and memoranda that we have to write at the shop; and when I'm lying awake in Hanover Street, or even sitting surrounded by a lot of gabbling idiots in the smoking-room of the club, I can see her gray eyes looking at me, and----"
"Oh Lord!" said George Wainwright, with a piteous smile; "I had no idea I'd let myself in for this!"
"You have, my dear old George, and for a lot more at a future time. Just now I came out to you because I was horribly restless, and Billy fastened himself on to me at the club, and I could not shake him off. But I want to talk to you about it seriously, George--seriously, you understand!"
"Whenever you like, Paul; but I expect you'll only get one scrap of advice out of me, repeated, as I fear, ad nauseam."
"And that is?"
"Give her up! give her up! give her up! Cato's powers of iteration in the delenda est Carthago business will prove weak as compared to mine in this."
"You'll find me stubborn, George."
"Buffon gives stubbornness as a characteristic of your class, Paul. Goodnight, old man."
"Goodnight, God bless you! To-morrow as per usual, I suppose?" and he was gone.
Alone once more, George Wainwright threw himself again into the easy-chair and renewed his pipe; but he shook his head more than ever, and when he did speak, it was only to mutter to himself: "Worse than I thought! Don't see the way out of that. Must look into this, and take care that Paul does not make a fool of himself."