“Oh, about women,” repeated he. “It’s time to begin work again.”

“Not for twenty minutes. You kept me at it ten minutes’ overtime—and you agreed I was to have double pay for overtime.”

He sat down again, a little cross.

“As I was saying,” pursued she, “you never talk about yourself and women—except the Syrian girl. Were you terribly in love with her?”

“That’s been so long ago. I don’t recall——”

“I’m sure she was crazy about you—and that you got tired of her—and broke her heart——”

He laughed. “She’s married to a friend of mine, and she weighs a ton. They’ve got a rug shop and how they do swindle rich Americans! Did I ever tell you[33] about how two men in Paris bought a rug for eleven thousand francs and sold it to an American for——”

[33]

“Why do you always dodge away? Are you really a woman hater?”

“Not I. Just the reverse.”

“And you’ve been in love?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Her smile kept bravely on, but her tone wasn’t quite the same as she said, “Really in love?”

“Madly. Lots of times.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean once—the once. I somehow feel that you’ve had a great love in your life—a love that has saddened you—has made you put women out of your life.”

He was laughing frankly at her. “What a romancer you are,” cried he. “It’s very evident that you’ve had no experience. If you had, you’d know that isn’t the way of love at all. Anyone who can catch it once can catch it any number of times. It’s a disease, I tell you. You want to fall in love and you proceed to do it, taking whoever happens to be convenient.”

This seemed to content her. “I see you’ve never been in love,” said she. “You’ve simply had experience. I like that. I hate a man who hasn’t had experience. Not that I ever thought you hadn’t—no, indeed. In the first five minutes I knew you I said to myself,[34] ‘Here’s a man who has been 

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