“No. What happened this afternoon has killed my love. A smear of ugliness has been drawn across a thing of beauty, and I can never feel towards him as I did.”
I saw what she meant, of course. Gussie had bunged his heart at her feet; she had picked it up, and, almost immediately after doing so, had discovered that he had been stewed to the eyebrows all the time. The shock must have been severe. No girl likes to feel that a chap has got to be thoroughly plastered before he can ask her to marry him. It wounds the pride.
Nevertheless, I persevered.
“But have you considered,” I said, “that you may have got a wrong line on Gussie’s performance this afternoon? Admitted that all the evidence points to a more sinister theory, what price him simply having got a touch of the sun? Chaps do get touches of the sun, you know, especially when the weather’s hot.”
She looked at me, and I saw that she was putting in a bit of the old drenched-irises stuff.
“It was like you to say that, Bertie. I respect you for it.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yes. You have a splendid, chivalrous soul.”
“Not a bit.”
“Yes, you have. You remind me of Cyrano.”