‘He’s growing peculiar.’

‘More peculiar, I suppose you mean?’

’His manner is erratic and changed.  It isn’t another invention, because when he is inventing he is merely monosyllabic, with spasms of muttering and an increased tendency to knock things over.  Now he’s altogether different.  It’s the trend of his conversation that puzzles me.  He talks of love.’

‘Love and William,’ I remarked, ’are as incompatible as acids and alkalis.  In what way does he touch on the subject?  With bitterness or curiosity?

’Both, I should say.  For one thing he is most ’anxious to know what are the effects of unrequited affection, and if the results can be serious.  Seems strange, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s passing strange, Henry.’

‘You don’t think he’s fallen in love with you, Netta?’

‘What makes you suggest he’s fallen in love with me?’

’Because he comes in contact with no other woman beyond you and his landlady, who, I understand, is over sixty and weighs fifteen stone—­so it must be you if it’s anybody.’ (This is a Scotsman’s way of paying a compliment; if you can follow the workings of his mind up to the source of the idea you will see he means well.)

’That William should fall in love seems incredible—­and entirely unnecessary,’ I commented.  ’There must be some other explanation of his manner.  As he’s coming to dinner to-night, I’ll watch and see if I can find anything unusually strange about him.’

When William made his appearance, therefore, I observed him intently.  Surely enough I was struck by the fact that he was changed in some subtle way.  He looked dejected.  Of course it was impossible to see much of his expression, owing to his face being almost entirely obliterated with hair, but what was visible was extremely sad.

Then a strange thing happened.  As soon as we were alone he began to exhibit signs of acute mental distress, and to my astonishment burst out, ’Mrs. Warrington, there is something I wanted to—­er—­ask you.  You are a woman for whom I have a profound respect; though you are inclined by character to be un peu moqueuse, you have, I feel, an exceedingly tender heart.’

I felt uneasy.  ‘Yes, William, it is tender—­but not for everybody,’ I added warningly.  Really, it was going to be very awkward if he, in his elephantine way, had conceived an infatuation for me.  My conscience was perfectly clear—­I had not encouraged him in any way, but nevertheless I did not wish to see him suffer from unrequited affection.  It would be so awkward in many ways.  William, even in his sane moods, has a dreadful habit of knocking things over.  If the abstraction of the lover descended upon him, it was going to have a dire effect on our household goods.

‘Because your heart is tender,’ he pursued, ’you will be able to realize the difficulty of my—­er—­you can better understand the sufferings of others.  Do you think an ill-placed affection can be combated—­that is, in time, be utterly stamped out?’