“I believe,” he said, “I believe you loved my little girl! Yes, Craig!—it was rather late in your day for love—but I believe you really loved her!”
The Philosopher drew his pipe from his mouth, looked down at it and smiled.
“Why use the past tense?” he queried, lazily. “Let’s revert to Shakespeare—‘Love is not Love, which alters when it alteration finds; oh, no, it is an ever fixèd mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken.’ That’s me! I’m an ‘ever fixèd mark’! Moreover, at my age, I’m not likely to change.”
“Is it as bad as all that?” and Maynard’s voice was almost compassionate.
“Not at all—it’s as good as it can be!” and the Philosopher lifted himself out of his sunken attitude in his armchair with a swift movement. “Nothing bad about it! I have built a little shrine in the recesses of my mind, and I’ve put a little Madonna inside. I shall say prayers to her now and then—and when I feel disposed to hate all mankind, I shall mutter an ‘Ave’ or a ‘Peccavi’ and pull myself together. My Madonna will always be just a pure little English maid among roses, with sentimental ideas about love and life in general—but she will serve me as well as most Madonnas—even the Madonna of Cimabue could never have been treated with more tenderness than I would have treated her—I mean, than I will treat her in my thoughts.”
He paused,—his pipe had gone out, and he struck a match and re-lit it. “You see, Maynard! That’s my late—very late!—idea of love!”
The old doctor was silent for some minutes—then he laid a hand, with gentlest touch, on that of his friend and literary co-adjutor.
“Such an idea is never too late!” he said. “Unselfish—beautiful—and romantic in these unromantic days! But it’s not an idea that would satisfy most men!”
“I’m not of the company of ‘most’ men,” put in Craig. “I claim to be original!”
“Ah, dear me!” sighed Maynard. “Age—age!—what joys it steals away from us!—now if you had been younger—she might have cared—”