“No, uncle, dear,” said Glynne; and there was not the slightest heightening of colour, nor a trace of excitement as she spoke.
“But, my dear child,” cried the major in the most perplexed way, “people don’t fall in love like that.”
“Don’t they, uncle?”
“No, no, of course not. There’s a lot of passion and storm, and tempest and that sort of thing.”
“But only in books.”
“Oh, yes, in real life. I remember when I fell in love with Lady Mary Callaghan.”
“Were you really once in love, uncle?” cried Glynne with the first touch of animation that she had shown.
“Of course I was—of course—once—but it didn’t come to anything. Well, there was a lot of fire and fury over that.”
“Was there, uncle?”
“Yes, to be sure. I felt as if I couldn’t live without her, and she felt as if she couldn’t live without me, and we were always writing letters to one another and couldn’t keep apart.”