“The man who cannot dine,” Mr. Singleton was saying, “cannot feel. He has not his proper equipment of senses. He is an imperfection, a waster.”
“That does not apply to women, I hope,” said Mrs. Tredegar, a languid, well-preserved woman, who was suspected of hankerings after a long defunct æstheticism. “I have been feeling all my life—and I can't remember to have ever dined.”
“I did once—at the Café Anglais. By Jove, it was good!” interpolated a fair-haired youth, who leaped eagerly at objectivities in the conversation.
“Your enthusiasm does you credit!” said Singleton. “You'll die yet, of a hopeless passion.”
Then, turning to Mrs. Tredegar:
“Of course it applies to women. La femme qui dîne, aime. Put it into French, and you see the force of it at once.”
“Ah, but if you put it the other way about. La femme qui aime——It is horrible; it takes all the romance away,” said Mrs. Tredegar.
“Oh, dear!” sighed Mr. Singleton, clasping his little plump hands resignedly. “Are we still to adore the well-conducted person who goes on cutting bread and butter? Oh, believe me, Edwin Smith and Angelina Brown can't love, any more than they can appreciate Château-Mouton. They possess for each other a faint current of sexual attraction, which produces between them a mild excess of amiability. A lot of vanity comes in, as they like to parade the possession of each other before the envious. They call themselves lovers, and follow the traditions they have been taught in the novels they have misunderstood and the hints they have received from observance of their friends. The furthest they can go is to clasp hands limply under a sofa-cushion, when they think no one is looking.”
“That's humbug,” said the youth. “I have been in love myself.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Singleton, “and you know nothing at all about it. Cultivate all your senses first, my young friend, and then you may fit yourself for falling in love.”