“You’ve had a few affairs, dear friend,” remarked Coltfoot, amused.
“Well, you know the kind. Everybody has ’em. Everybody has that sort. That’s just vanity—silliness—no harm, you know.... The young are always sparring—like little chicks and kittens.”
Coltfoot finished his glass. There was an interval; Annan set both elbows on his knees and framed his drawn face between his hands.
“No, I’m not in love,” he said as though to himself.
They discussed other matters. But now and then Annan drifted back to love, and his ignorance of it.
“I suppose,” he said carelessly, “a fellow is able to diagnose the thing if he gets it.... Recognise it.... Don’t you?”
“Probably.”
“I suppose every fellow stands a chance of landing there sooner or later.”
“You write about it. Don’t you know?”
“Certainly.... I’m familiar with some phases of it.... The phenomena are well known.”