From the angle of Caroline’s chin I saw that it was anything but stale to her, and that the remark was unfortunate. She was evidently of opinion that the subject of love, however much used, had had anything but adequate treatment, and that in one or two important respects she was in a position to direct a new light on the literary treatment of it.
“What do you mean, Mr. Macquoid?” she asked.
“Merely,” he replied casually, “that there is so little dash and—and high-handedness about our modern methods of love-making. You get your couples together, and they talk in the same weary way—the same old flat talk, talk, talk——”
I smiled at the description as applied to Bassishaw, whose fluency was not remarkable, and Caroline looked coldly before her.
“You refer to the stage, Mr. Macquoid?” she asked.
“I refer to modern love-making,” he replied rashly. “We have no romantic methods left. It has become a business and a bore. When we do get it out it’s one kiss and thank Heaven it’s over.”
Caroline looked emphatic contradiction. I interposed.
“The Roman soldiery, it is related,” I said, “being once in want of wives——”
Caroline interrupted me quickly.
“I think, Mr. Macquoid,” she returned, “that people love just as passionately nowadays as they ever did.”