"
"After all," said the Philosopher, "what can a man do more than tell
a woman that he loves her? All the rest is mere picturesque
amplification, on a par with the 'Full and descriptive report from
our Special Correspondent,' elaborated out of a three-line telegram
of Reuter's."
"Following that argument," said the Minor Poet, "you could reduce
'Romeo and Juliet' to a two-line tragedy -
Lass and lad, loved like mad;
Silly muddle, very sad."
"To be told that you are loved," said the Girton Girl, "is only the
beginning of the theorem--its proposition, so to speak."
"Or the argument of the poem," murmured the Old Maid.
"The interest," continued the Girton Girl, "lies in proving it--why
does he love me?"
"I asked a man that once," said the Woman of the World. "He said it
was because he couldn't help it. It seemed such a foolish answer--
the sort of thing your housemaid always tells you when she breaks
your favourite teapot. And yet, I suppose it was as sensible as any
other."
"More so," commented the Philosopher. "It is the only possible
explanation."
"I wish," said the Minor Poet, "it were a question one could ask of
people without offence; I so often long to put it.
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