And when he who has valorously loved says “But—gee!—I dunno—” love flees in panic.
He walked home thoughtfully.
After dinner he said abruptly to Nelly, “I had a letter from Paris to-day.”
“Honestly? Who is she?”
“G-g-g-g—”
“Oh, it’s always a she.”
“Why—uh—it is from a girl. I started to tell you about her one day. She’s an artist, and once we took a long tramp in the country. I met her—she was staying at the same place as I was in London. But—oh, gee! I dunno; she’s so blame literary. She is a fine person—Do you think you’d like a girl like that?”
“Maybe I would.”
“If she was a man?”
“Oh, yes-s! Artists are so romantic.”