"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. Why do men marry
viragoes, pimply girls with incipient moustaches? Why do beautiful
heiresses choose thick-lipped, little men who bully them? Why are
old bachelors, generally speaking, sympathetic, kind-hearted men;
and old maids, so many of them, sweet-looking and amiable?"

"I think," said the Old Maid, "that perhaps--" But there she
stopped.

"Pray go on," said the Philosopher. "I shall be so interested to
have your views."

"It was nothing, really," said the Old Maid; "I have forgotten."