“Then he will know what he is doing!” echoed the Philosopher, grimly. “That’s deep,—very deep! Quite beyond me! Are there ever any occasions,—setting drink aside,—when he doesn’t know what he is doing?”
She gave him a fleeting glance.
“Oh, yes! Many!”
“Indeed! You are developing a very singular perspicuity! Could you name one of those occasions?”
She laughed.
“Well! Let us say when he’s in love!”
“In love!” The Philosopher almost snorted contempt. “In love! You women think of nothing but love! Do you know—have you ever realised—that being ‘in love’ as you call it, is the least and most unimportant part of a man’s career?”
She looked up at him.
“Is it?”
The Philosopher rather winced as she put the question. He was conscious of a little quicker beating of the heart (which, of course, might be attributed to indigestion)—and he studied the aspect of the sky critically, in order to avoid her eyes.