“And who is that?” he inquired, looking down at her with mild curiosity in his eyes.
“George Dare,” she answered.
He laughed.
“Poor devil!” he remarked. “If I didn’t show him some affection, who would? Besides, it’s a proof that there are lovable qualities in him. If a man can’t tolerate himself, he must be a fairly bad egg.”
“You are not justified in making a virtue of egoism,” she argued. “And you ought to marry. It’s a duty you owe the State... Men are so selfish!”
“Oh, come!” he remonstrated. “One can’t place all the big questions of life on such a brutally practical basis. There’s the human side to be considered. Your argument lowers the beautiful to a mere matter of essentials. There is a spiritual element in marriage, after all.”
Mrs Carruthers turned a frankly wondering, inquisitive gaze upon him, with the disconcerting observation:
“If you were not in love, you wouldn’t talk in that exalted strain. It’s unlike you.”
“I didn’t know I was such a material beast,” he retorted.
His eyes met hers for a second or so, and then, to her increasing amazement, avoided her gaze. He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked everywhere save at this woman whom he liked immensely, but whom he hoped to keep comfortably outside his confidence. He was afraid of Mrs Carruthers’ powers of divination. When a woman takes an affectionate interest in a man, she can become an embarrassment as much as a pleasure.