"What do you mean?"     

       "You were just going to ask me if I had ever been in love, weren't you?"     

       "I wasn't, because I know you haven't. You have no soul. You don't know what love is."     

       "Have it your own way," said Mifflin, resignedly.     

       Jimmy bumped back on the sofa.     

       "I don't either," he said. "That's the trouble."     

       Mifflin looked interested.     

       "I know," he said. "You've got that strange premonitory fluttering, when the heart seems to thrill within you like some baby bird singing its first song, when—"     

       "Oh, cut it out!"     

       "—when you ask yourself timidly, 'Is it? Can it really be?' and answer shyly, 'No. Yes. I believe it is!' I've been through it dozens of times; it is a recognized early symptom. Unless prompt measures are taken, it will develop into something acute. In these matters, stand on your Uncle Arthur. He knows."     

       "You make me sick," Jimmy retorted.     

       "You have our ear," said Mifflin, kindly. "Tell me all."     

       "There's nothing to tell."     

       "Don't lie, James."     

       "Well, practically nothing."     

       "That's better."     

       "It was like this."     

       "Good."     

       Jimmy wriggled himself into a more comfortable position, and took a sip from his glass.     

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