"In these novels," continued Gerard, irritably, "five-sixths of the
pages are devoted to love; everything else is subordinated to it; it
controls all motives, it initiates all action, it drugs reason, it
prolongs the tuppenny suspense, sustains cheap situations, and produces
agonisingly profitable climaxes for the authors. . . . Does it act that
way in real life?"

"Not usually," said Selwyn.

"Nobody else thinks so, either. Why doesn't somebody tell the truth? Why
doesn't somebody tell us how a man sees a nice girl and gradually begins
to tag after her when business hours are over? A respectable man is busy
from eight or nine until five or six. In the evening he's usually at the
club, or dining out, or asleep; isn't he? Well, then, how much time
does it leave for love? Do the problem yourself in any way you wish; the
result is a fraction every time; and that fraction represents the proper
importance of the love interest in its proper ratio to a man's entire
life."

He sat up, greatly pleased with himself at having reduced sentiment to a
fixed proportion in the ingredients of life.

"If I had time," he said, "I could tell them how to write a book--" He
paused, musing, while the confident smile spread. Selwyn stared at
space.

"What does a young man know about love, anyway?" demanded his
brother-in-law.

"Nothing," replied Selwyn listlessly.