' does not prevent pleasure to the grasshopper.--It is
only fatiguing to the listener. You can have no continued sensible
conversation with any of these women--they force you to enjoy only their
skins--"

"Can the Contessa talk?"

"She has the languour of the South--She does not jump from one subject
to another, she is frankly only interested in love."

"Honestly, George--do you believe there is such a thing as real love?"

"We have discussed this before, Nicholas--You know my views--but I am
hoping Violetta will change them. She has just begun to ask daily if I
love her"--

"Why do women always do that--even one's little friends continually
murmur the question?"

"It is the working of their subconscious minds----Damn good cigars
these, my dear boy--pre-war eh?----Yes it is to justify their
surrender--They want to be assured _in words_ that you adore
them--because you see the actions of love really prove nothing of love
itself. A stranger who has happened to appeal to the senses can call
them forth quite as successfully as the lady of one's heart!"

"It is logical of women then to ask that eternal question?"

"Quite--I make a point of answering them always without irritation."

----I wonder--if Miss Sharp loved anyone would she?----but I am
determined not to speculate further about her--.

When Colonel Harcourt had gone--I deliberately rang my bell--and when
she came into the room I found I was not sure what I had rung for--It is
the most exasperating fact that Miss Sharp keeps me in a continual state
of nervous consciousness.

Her manner was indifferently expectant, if one can use such a
paradoxical description--.

"I--I--wondered if you played the piano?--"I blurted out.

She looked surprised--if one can ever say she looks anything, with the
expression of her eyes completely hidden. She answered as usual with one
word--.

"Yes."

"I suppose you would not play to me?--er--it might give me an
inspiration for the last chapter--"

She went and opened the lid of the instrument.

"What sort of music do you like?" she asked.

"Play whatever you think I would appreciate."

She began a Fox trot, she played it with unaccountable spirit and taste,
so that the sound did not jar me--but the inference hurt a little. I
said nothing, however. Then she played "Smiles," and the sweet
commonplace air said all sorts of things to me--Desire to live again,
and dance, and enjoy foolish pleasures--How could this litt