“And who, may I ask, was fortunate enough to win your unswerving devotion six years and nine months ago?” she demanded, with fine sarcasm.
“She hadn’t a personality for me,” he replied. “I fell in love with a face.”
His listener eyed him derisively.
“She hadn’t any body, I suppose?” she said.
“Oh, yes, I believe so. The body was there, all right. But if it had been misshapen, or even, as you suggest, non-existent, that wouldn’t have made the slightest difference to my affections.”
“Oh, don’t try to humbug me!” Mrs Carruthers exclaimed. “You can’t convince me, after all you have said, that you are in love with nothing more substantial than a face. Where is the girl now?”
“She disappeared,” he answered vaguely. “I took the trouble to inquire, believe me. They told me she had married.”
“That disposes of her,” Mrs Carruthers responded, with that touch of finality which convention brings to bear upon romance that can have no legitimate ending. “It is not decent of you to talk as though you were in love with her still. That’s all finished, anyhow.”
“One cannot regulate one’s feelings,” he protested, “to satisfy a silly prejudice like that.”
“But it’s not fair to the girl,” she urged.