"This is no joking matter. For Heaven's sake, do be serious!"
Saunders brushed a speck of mud off his patent-leather boots.
"So I'm to take you seriously, Nervy? Well, then, listen, my dear, irresponsible, melodramatic friend. Love is a wonderful thing. It is rightly considered the beginning and the end of all things. I say so, moi qui vous parle, though I've been married nearly two years. But this infatuation—this calf-love of yours for a hypertrophied blonde with the conversational powers of a turnip, is, ipso facto, ridiculous. You will love some day, friend of my youth, but if your love is unrequited you will not turn to the revolver for solace."
"What are you letting me in for?" asked the bewildered Trafford. A powerful reaction had left him weak—weak in voice and weak in spirit.
"I mean," went on Saunders with slow emphasis, "that if you demand what your heart really desires and the response is 'no,' you will, in the words of the prehistoric doggerel, try, try again. Love that accepts defeat is an unhealthy passion; Love that tries to find relief in death is a disease. You are diseased, cher ami. Buck up! and listen to the words of your good doctor."
"I'm listening," said Trafford somewhat sheepishly.
"Good! To begin with, you are sound physically. Muscles firm, energy splendid, and your tongue would probably shame a hot-house geranium. But your psychic self is out of gear. Wheels are racing in your poor old brain! Little troubles become great tragedies! Vital things seem small and insignificant! You need a potent remedy."
"Let it come over speedy then!" the American replied with some show of interest.
For a moment the Englishman looked mystified. Presently he answered:
"You need to live in the open—plenty of sunshine and perfect air."