"How impossible?"
"Because I know nothing about love."
"That's a pity," said the Tinker.
"Under the circumstances, it is," said I.
"Not a doubt of it," said the Tinker, beginning to scrub out the frying-pan with a handful of grass, "though to be sure you might learn; you're young enough."
"Yes, I might learn," said I; "who knows?"
"Ah! who knows?" said the Tinker. And after he had cleansed the pan to his satisfaction, he turned to me with dexter finger upraised and brow of heavy portent. "Young fellow," said he, "no man can write a good nov-el without he knows summat about love; it aren't to be expected—so the sooner you do learn, the better."
"Hum!" said I.
"And then, as I said afore and I say it again, they wants love in a book nowadays, and wot's more they will have it."
"They?" said I.