"
"Ah; you have been taking lessons of your friend."
"He is a good teacher. He is one of those men whom I admire.
Women have never mastered him. He knows so much about them."
"Yes?" a flicker in her eyes.
"Beneath all his banter there is a brave heart. He is a rare man
who, having brain and heart to guide, follows the heart." He
picked up the pipe and began to play a tattoo on the sill. "As
for me, I know nothing of women, save what I have read in books,
and save that I have been too long without them."
"And you have gone all these years without knowing what it is to
love?" To a man less guileless, this question would not have
been in good taste.
Fitzgerald was silent; he dared not venture another lie.
"What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in
your life?"
"Yes." He continued to tap the pipe. His gaze wandered to the
candles, strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly,
so steadfastly, that she could not resist. She was annoyed.
"Tell me about her."
"My vocabulary is too limited. You would laugh at me."
"I? No; love is sacred." She had boasted to Maurice that she was
without conscience; she had only smothered it.
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