"Rather underdone. I see. Well—I don't understand that anyone wants to take them off the hob...."
"I think her mother does."
"Not exactly. She only wishes them to stand on separate hobs for three months. They will hear each other simmer. My own belief is that they will be worked up to a sort of frenzy, compared to which those two parties in Dante ... you know which I mean?..."
"Paolo and Francesca?"
Mr. Pellew thought to himself how well enformed Miss Dickenson was. He said aloud:—"Yes, them. Paolo and Francesca would be quite lukewarm—sort of negus!—compared to our young friends. Correspondence is the doose. Not so bad in this case, p'r'aps, because he can't read her letters himself.... I don't know, though—that might make it worse.... Couldn't say!" And he seemed to find that cigar very good, and, indeed, to be enjoying himself thoroughly.
Had Aunt Constance any sub-intent in her next remark? Had it any hinterland of discussion of the ethics of Love, provocative of practical application to the lives of old maids and old bachelors—if the one, then the other, in this case—strolling in a leisurely way through bracken and beechmast, fancy-free, no doubt? If she had, and her companion suspected it, he was not seriously alarmed, this time. But then he was off to London in a couple of hours.
Her remark was:—"You seem to be quite an authority on the subject, Mr. Pellew."
"No—you don't mean that? Does me a lot of credit, though! Guessin', I am, all through. No experience—honour bright!"
"You don't expect me to believe that, Mr. Pellew?"
"Needn't believe it, unless you like, Miss Dickenson. But it's true, for all that. Never was in love in my life!"