"Is he in love?"
"That's just it, he thinks he is."
"Well, you marry the girl you're in love with, Mr Carstairs, and don't take any notice of anybody."
"But she's impossible, mater."
"What do you mean by impossible? I don't believe in impossibility. If you're in love with the girl and she's in love with you, marry her, Mr Carstairs, and snap your fingers at everybody. It's better for you and for the girl and for everybody concerned. I hate those busy bodies who talk about 'impossible marriages.'" She seemed strangely excited.
Carstairs looked steadily into her excited, inflamed eyes. "I agree with you entirely, Mrs Darwen. The girl I'm in love with is a gipsy. She's a servant in a big house near my home."
"A servant?" Mrs Darwen seemed in doubt for a moment. Then the look of resolution again hardened in her eyes. "It doesn't matter what she is. Are you really in love?"
"I was."
"Ah! I see you're not. Once in love, always in love. Very few people really fall in love. They haven't got it in them. It's a matter of pluck. You've got it in you. When you're in love, you'll know it, and so will the girl, or I'm very much mistaken." She looked at Carstairs' steady eyes and firm mouth with a sort of motherly admiration.
"I was nineteen then, and I met her quite by accident."