“The songs at any rate are heart-breaking,” said she.
“They represent the most acute stage of the lovers’ feelings, then?” said he.
“I daresay. I suppose there are degrees of feelings even of lovers.”
“I’m sure of it, Miss Hope.”
He was seated in a wicker chair; she had thrown herself into another—a seat that gave her the appearance of lying in a hammock. He scanned her from her white forehead down to the dainty feet that crossed one another on the sloping support of cane-work. She would have been looked on as a very pretty girl in a London drawing-room; and even a girl who would be regarded as commonplace there would pass as a marvel of loveliness on the West Coast of Africa.
“Yes,” continued Dr Koomadhi, “I’m sure there are degrees of feeling even among lovers.”
“You are a doctor, and so doubtless have had many opportunities of diagnosing the disease in all its stages,” said she.
“Yes, I am a doctor,” said he. “I am also a man. I have felt. I feel.”
She gave another laugh.
“A complete conjugation of the verb,” said she. “Past and present tenses. How about the future?”