“Then I am going to do the next best thing. I am going to Geneva to find out.”
“And how long have you been like this?”
“Since January.”
“Why didn't you tell me before?”
“Because I did not relish telling it to myself. Now I have acknowledged it, I have been pulling the petals off the marguerite, in a kind of inverse way, for months, and the pastime has palled. The dear old man thinks I am going solely for his sake, and I feel rather a humbug. But of course—well—”
“Most of us are.”
“What?”
“Humbugs,” replied the lady sweetly. “Come, honour bright. Don't you know whether you are in love or not?”
“No.”
“Would you like to be?”