"When she was a child."
"Oh, when she was a child?" George became calmer. "Do you mean to say you've known her since she was a child? Why, then you must be in love with her yourself."
"Nothing of the kind."
"You stand there and tell me," said George incredulously, "that you have known this wonderful girl for many years and are not in love with her?"
"I do."
George regarded his friend with a gentle pity. He could only explain this extraordinary statement by supposing that there was some sort of a kink in Hamilton Beamish. Sad, for in so many ways he was such a fine fellow.
"The sight of her has never made you feel that, to win one smile, you could scale the skies and pluck out the stars and lay them at her feet?"
"Certainly not. Indeed, when you consider that the nearest star is several million...."
"All right," said George. "All right. Let it go. And now," he went on simply, "tell me all about her and her people and her house and her dog and what she was like as a child and when she first bobbed her hair and who is her favourite poet and where she went to school and what she likes for breakfast...."
Hamilton Beamish reflected.