“You know so much about it,” observed Mrs. Ferrall ironically.
“I am permitted to speculate, am I not?”
“Certainly. Only speculate in sound investments, dear.”
“How can you make a sound investment in love? Isn't it always sheerest speculation?”
“Yes, that is why simple matrimony is usually a safer speculation than love.”
“Yes, but—love isn't matrimony.”
“Match that with its complementary platitude and you have the essence of modern fiction,” observed Mrs. Ferrall. “Love is a subject talked to death, which explains the present shortage in the market I suppose. You're not in love and you don't miss it. Why cultivate an artificial taste for it? If it ever comes naturally, you'll be astonished at your capacity for it, and the constant deterioration in quantity and quality of the visible supply. Goodness! my epigrams make me yawn—or is it age and the ill humour of the aged when the porridge spills over on the family cat?”
“I am the cat, I suppose,” asked Sylvia, laughing.
“Yes you are—and you go tearing away, back up, fur on end, leaving me by the fire with no porridge and only the aroma of the singeing fur to comfort me.... Still there's one thing to comfort me.”
“What?”