"Yes," said Anthony.
"H'm," repeated Miss Sandus. "You go a bit fast. How long have you known her?"
"All my life. I never lived until I knew her," he averred.
"It was inevitable that you should say that—men always say that," the lady generalised. "I heard it for the first time fifty-five years ago."
"Then, I expect, there must be some truth in it," was Anthony's deduction. "Anyhow, I have known her long enough. One does n't need time in these affairs. One recognises a perfect thing—one recognises one's affinity. One knows when one is hit. I 'm in love with her. Give me your sympathy and counsel."
"You have my sympathy. What counsel do you wish?"
"What shall I do?" asked Anthony. "Drown myself? Take to drink?"
"I should n't drown myself," said Miss Sandus. "Drowning is so wet and chilly; and I 'm told it's frightfully unbecoming, into the bargain. As for drink, I hear it's nothing like what it's cracked up to be."
"I daresay it is n't," admitted Anthony, with a sigh. "I suppose there's not the ghost of a chance for me?" he gloomed.
"H'm," said Miss Sandus.