"What worries him about you?" I demanded.
"He seems to think I'm an idiot. I told him I meant to take life gaily and happily when opportunity offered, because I, probably, had only a very short time to live. I told him that I found the world beautiful and that I had fallen ardently in love with life. I told him that I didn't want to die without learning a little something about men, and that my time was short, and I ought to neglect no opportunity."
"What on earth did he say?"
"He became angry."
"Didn't he say anything?"
She blushed: "Oh, yes. He said he wouldn't be used in such a manner. He said that he desired to be taken seriously or not at all. At which solemn statement I laughed, naturally enough. Then he became furious, demanding to be informed whether I had the soul of a soubrette or of a modest and properly brought up young girl.
"And I replied that to be modest did not necessitate deceit and hypocrisy; that I had told him the truth; that I loved life, adored happiness, was enamored of the world, knew nothing of men but wished to: imagined nothing more delightful than to be made love to, intended to take advantage of the first opportunity that offered."
"W-what did he say to that, Clelia?" I faltered, utterly bewildered.
"A lot of nonsense. He tried to make me believe that love is a tragic and solemn business—as though I were not fed up on the solemn and tragic!
"He said I was a fool and didn't know what I was talking about. He said, in substance, that the subject of love was one to be approached on tip-toe, with awe, formality, prayer, and fasting. He said that such a man as he could love only an ideal, not a human and happy thing in love with life and willing to prove it with the first young man that passes. He said that I alarmed and grieved him; that I am unmoral; that my impulses are purely pagan; that the formalism of civilization alone can sanction any impulse attraction between his sex and mine."