“Now then,” said Wainsworth, “we can talk.”
“I am an empty urn, waiting to be filled with your tales and confessions,” said Adam.
Wainsworth settled back in his chair and stroked his small imperial, hung on his under lip. “Yes, we can talk,” he repeated. He sat upright again, and once more leaned backward. “I don’t know where to begin,” he admitted.
“You might start off by saying you’re in love.”
“Who told you I’m in love? I haven’t said so. You’d be in love yourself, if ever you had met her. She’s a beauty, Adam! She’s divine! She’s glorious! Odds walruses, you’d be clean crazy about her! Why, you would simply rave—you couldn’t be as calm as I am if you knew her, Adam! She’s the loveliest, sweetest, most heavenly angel that ever walked the earth! Why, I can’t give you an idea! She,—she, she just takes your breath! There is nothing in Boston like her—nothing in the world. Why, man, you couldn’t sit still if you had ever seen her!” He got up and paced the room madly. “You could no more sit there and tell me about her as I am telling you than you could drink the ocean!”
“No, I suppose I couldn’t.”
“Of course you couldn’t. I’m an older man than you are—a whole year older—and I know what I am talking about. You would go raving mad, if you saw her. She is the most exquisite—Adam! She’s peerless!”
“Then you are in love?” said Adam. “Up to this last moment I thought there might be some doubts about it, but I begin to suspect perhaps you are.”
“Love? In love? My dear boy, you don’t know what love is! I adore her! I worship her! I would lay down my life for her! I would die ten thousand deaths for her, and then say I loved her still!”
“That would be a remarkable post-mortem power of speech,” said Adam. “And I suppose she loves you as fervently as you love her.”