‘Do you think so,—why?’
‘Because you would,—men whose hearts are broken always do,—you’d swallow a magnum at the least.’
Percy groaned.
‘When I drink I’m always ill,—but I’ll have a try.’
He had a try,—making a good beginning by emptying at a draught the glass which the waiter had just now filled. Then he relapsed into melancholy.
‘Tell me, Percy,—honest Indian!—do you really love her?’
‘Love her?’ His eyes grew round as saucers. ‘Don’t I tell you that I love her?’
‘I know you tell me, but that sort of thing is easy telling. What does it make you feel like, this love you talk so much about?’
‘Feel like?—Just anyhow,—and nohow. You should look inside me, and then you’d know.’
‘I see.—It’s like that, is it?—Suppose she loved another man, what sort of feeling would you feel towards him?’