Jimmy drew a deep breath.

“Very well,” said Mifflin complacently; “sigh if you like—it’s better than nothing.”

Jimmy sat up.

“Yes, dozens of times,” said Mifflin.

“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 to 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, shut up!”

“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 recognised 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 tired,” said Jimmy briefly.

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

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Don’t lie, James.”

“Well, practically nothing.”

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