"A man is never too young to fall in love," he retorted, "I had it at least six times before I was twenty-one."
The laughter was still on her lips. "You speak as if it were the measles."
"It is—or worse, for when you've pulled through a bad attack of the measles you may safely count yourself immune. With love—" he shrugged his shoulders.
"Do you mean," she asked lightly, "that one can keep it up like that—forever."
He shook his head.
"Oh, I think a case is rare," he replied, "after seventy-five. One usually dies by then."
"And is there never—with a man, I mean—really one?"
"Oh, Lord, yes, there's always one—at a time."
His laughing eyes were probing her, and as she met them, questioningly, she found it impossible to tell whether he was merely jesting or in deadly earnest. With the doubt she felt a sharp prick of curiosity, and with it she realised that in this uncertainty—this flashing suggestion of all possibilities or of nothing—dwelt the singular attraction that he had for her—and for others. Was he only superficial, after all? Or did these tantalising contradictions serve to conceal the hidden depths beneath? Had she for an instant taken him entirely at his word value, she knew that her interest in him would have quickly passed—but the force which dominated him, the lurking seriousness which seemed always behind his laughter, the very largeness of the candour he displayed—these things kept her forever expectant and forever interested.
"I hate you when you are like this," she exclaimed, almost indignantly.