I walked over and looked fixedly at The Laughing Girl.
"Poor simp," I murmured mechanically, not meaning anybody in particular. But as I said it I lifted my absent and troubled eyes, and beheld my own reflection in the mirror. It shocked me. Never had I believed myself capable of a simper. And by heaven I wore one now—a moon-eyed sentimental simper upon my virgin features.
"Confound it!" said I furiously, "why should I look like that? What's the matter with my face?"
Very deep somewhere within me, in a still and serene obscurity so far unagitated and un-plumbed, something stirred.
"I—I'm not in d-danger of f-falling in love," said I in a scared voice. "Am I?"
Something was the matter with my heart. It had become irregular and seemed frightened.
"If for one moment I supposed," said I, "that I were actually in the slightest danger of—of——"
I looked at the Laughing Girl; looked away. And went to a chair and sat down.
After a long interval I gave tongue to my inmost convictions. "It isn't done," said I. "Fancy! Ha-ha!"
But my laughter was a failure.