“Fact is, old chap,” he said in an unusually earnest tone, “I fear I’m getting a bit tired of her. She wasn’t the least bit interesting to-night.”
“Sorry to hear that, old man,” I said. “Perhaps she wasn’t very well—or you may be out of sorts—liver, or something. A woman isn’t always in the same mood, you know, just as a man is liable to attacks of blues.”
“Yes, yes, I know all that,” he exclaimed impatiently. “But I’ve been thinking over it a long time, and, to tell the truth, I’m no longer in love with her. It’s no good making a fool of the girl any longer.”
“But she loves you,” I observed, knowing well in what affection she held my erratic friend.
“That’s the devil of it!” he snapped. “To tell the truth, it has worried me a lot lately.”
“You’ve neglected her very much,” I observed, “but surely she’s good-looking, a charming companion, and has a very even temper. You’ve told me so lots of times. Why have you so suddenly grown tired?”
“I really don’t know,” he answered, smiling, at the same time slowly filling his pipe. “Perhaps it’s my nature. I was always a wanderer, you know.”
I looked at him steadily for some moments, then said bluntly—
“Look here, Dick, you needn’t conceal the truth from me, old fellow. Mary Blain has attracted you, and you are throwing Lil over on her account.”
“Rubbish!” he laughed. “Mary’s a nice girl, but as for loving her—” and he shrugged his shoulders without concluding his sentence.