"I suppose I am," she eventually replied. Then she caught me by the arm.
"Look here, Tony, do be a dear. You're old enough to be my ancestor and by
all accounts you've had a dreadful past. Do tell me if I'm making an ass of
myself. I only did it once," she went on, without giving me time to answer.
"You know all about it--Vanucci, the little beast. I needn't put on frills
with you. Since then I swore off that sort of thing. I've gone about in
maiden meditation and man's breeches, fancy free. I've loved lots of men
just as I've loved lots of women--as friends, comrades. I'm level-headed
and, I think, level-hearted. I haven't gone about like David in his wrath,
saying that all men are liars. They're not. They're just as good as women,
if not better. I've no betrayed virgin's grouch against men. But I've made
myself too busy to worry about sex. It's no use talking tosh. Sex is the
root of the whole sentimental, maudlin----"

"But tremulous and bewildering and nerve-racking and delicious and
myriad-adjectived soul-condition," I interrupted, "known generally as love.
Ninety-nine point nine repeater per cent of the world's literature has been
devoted to its analysis. It's therefore of some importance. It's even the
vital principle of the continuity of the human race."

"I'm perfectly aware of it."

"Then why, my dear, resent, as you seem to do, the inevitable reassertion,
in your own case, of the vital principle?"

She laughed. "_Chassez le naturel, il revient au galop_. But that's
just it. Is it a gallop or is it a crawl? I tell you, I thought myself
immune for many years. But now, these last two or three days I'm beginning
to feel a perfect idiot. A few minutes ago if the whole lot of you hadn't
been standing round, I think I should have cried. Just for silly gladness.