He met my gaze very frankly. "For the simple reason, Major Meredyth, that I love her."
All this natural, matter-of-fact simplicity coming from so artificial a product of Balliol as Randall Holmes, was a bit upsetting. After a pause, I said:
"If that is so, why don't you marry her?"
"She'll have nothing to do with me."
"Have you asked her?"
"I have, in writing. There's no mistake about it. I'm in earnest."
"I'm exceedingly glad to hear it," said I.
And I was. An honest lover I can understand, and a Don Juan I can understand. But the tepid philanderer has always made my toes tingle. And I was glad, too, to hear that little Phyllis Gedge had so much dignity and commonsense. Not many small builders' daughters would have sent packing a brilliant young gentleman like Randall Holmes, especially if they happened to be in love with him. As I did not particularly wish to be the confidant of this love-lorn shepherd, I said nothing more. Randall lit a cigarette.
"I hope I'm not boring you," he said.
"Not a bit."