To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. “Round midnight, I think. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. And we won’t make it so. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. As soon as she noticed the stranger, she honoured him with an extremely impudent stare, and scarcely endeavoured to disguise the admiration with which his good looks impressed her. I would sooner see you in a ’bus again.
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