"What was that, Smith?"
"I took the matter too seriously."
"Shouldn't one?"
"Never!"
I nodded, blankly.
"To be too seriously in love, and to show it," said Smith, "is disastrous to a man. It won't do, Michael. Unless our sex takes it gayly and good humoredly we're patronized. Take it from me, the solemn side, the fasting and prayer, must originate in the other sex. It never does if we betray such symptoms. They always wait to see whether we'll break out. And when we do they treat us as though we were sick—kindly but condescendingly. You get me?"
"Vaguely."
"All right. But here's the other aspect: when we fall in love, and say so, and then take the object of our vows gayly, amiably, and with perfect good humor always—no matter how inwardly we doubt and fear and rage—then, Michael, the girl we worship becomes very, very serious—even ponderous at times—and if she's got any brain at all it gets busy and remains busy. And what preoccupies her mind are questions concerning whether or not you really do love her seriously enough; and, if not, whether she can make you do it, which state of intellect causes perpetual anxiety and chronic uncertainty. And only when these emotions perpetually preoccupy a girl, can she finally fall in love with you sufficiently to forget what an ass you really are."
"Smith," said I, "are you in love with Clelia?"
"Yes, damn it," he said serenely.