The other day my young cousin George lunched with me. He is a cheery youth, and a member of the University of Oxford¹. He refreshes me very much, and I believe that I have the pleasure of affording him some matter for thought. On this occasion, however, he was extremely silent and depressed². I said little, but made an extremely good luncheon³. Afterwards we proceeded to take a stroll in the Park.  
“Sam, old boy,” said George suddenly, “I’m the most miserable⁴ devil alive.”
 
“I don’t know what else you expect at your age,” I observed, lighting⁵ a cigar. He walked on in silence for a few moments.
 
“I say, Sam, old boy, when you were young, were you ever—?” he paused, arranged his neckcloth (it was more like a bed-quilt—oh, the fashion, of course, I know that), and blushed a fine crimson⁶.
 
“Was I ever what, George?” I had the curiosity to ask.
 
“Oh, well, hard hit, you know—a girl, you know.”
 
“In love, you mean, George? No, I never was.”
 
“Never?”
 
“No. Are you?”
 
“Yes. Hang it!” Then he looked at me with a puzzled air and continued:
 
“I say, though, Sam, it’s awfully⁷ funny you shouldn’t have—don’t you know what it’s like, then?”
 
“How should I?” I inquired apologetically. “What is it like, George?”
 
George took my arm.
 
“It’s just Hades,” he informed me confidentially⁸.
 
“Then,” I remarked, “I have no reason to regret—?”
 
“Still, you know,” interrupted George, “it’s not half bad.”
 
“That appears to me to be a paradox,” I observed.
 
“It’s precious hard to explain it to you if you’ve never felt it,” said George, in rather an injured tone. “But what I say is quite true.”
 
“I shouldn’t think of contradicting you, my dear fellow,” I hastened to say.
 
“Let’s sit down,” said he, “and watch the people driving. We may see somebody—somebody we know, you know, Sam.”
 
“So we may,” said I, and we sat down.
 
“A fellow,” pursued George, with knitted brows, “is all turned upside down, don’t you know?”
 
“How very peculiar⁹?” I exclaimed.
 
“One moment he’s the happiest dog in the world, and the next—well, the next, it’s the deuce.”
 
“But,” I objected, “not surely without good reason for such a change?”
 
“Reason? Bosh! The least thing does it.”
 
I flicked¹⁰ the ash from my cigar.
 
“It may,” I remarked, “affect you in this extraordinary way, but surely it is not so with most people?”
 
“Perhaps not,” George conceded. “Most people are cold-blooded asses¹¹.”
 
“Very likely the explanation lies in that fact,” said I.
 
“I didn’t mean you, old chap,” said George, with a penitence¹² which showed that he had meant me.
 
“Oh, all right, all right,” said I.
 
“But when a man’s really far gone there’s nothing else in the world but it.”
 
“That seems to me not to be a healthy condition,” said I.
 
“Healthy? Oh, you old idiot, Sam! Who’s talking of health? Now, only last night I met her at a dance. I had five dances with her—talked to her half the evening, in fact. Well, you’d think that would last some time, wouldn’t you?”
 
“I should certainly have supposed so,” I assented¹³.
 
“So it would with most chaps, I dare say, but with me—confound it, I feel as if I hadn’t seen her for six months!”
 
“But, my dear George, that’s surely rather absurd? As you tell me, you spent a long while with the young person—”
 
“The—young person!”
 
“You’ve not told me her name, you see.”
 
“No, and I shan’t. I wonder if she’ll be at the Musgraves’ tonight!”
 
“You’re sure,” said I soothingly¹⁴, “to meet her somewhere in the course of the next few weeks.”
 
George looked at me. Then he observed with a bitter laugh:
 
“It’s pretty evident you’ve never had it. You’re as bad as those chaps who write books.”
 
“Well, but surely they often describe with sufficient warmth and—er—color—”
 
“Oh, I dare say; but it’s all wrong. At least, it’s not what I feel. Then look at the girls in books! All beasts!”
 
George spoke¹⁵ with much vehemence¹⁶; so that I was led to say:
 
“The lady you are preoccupied¹⁷ with is, I suppose, handsome?”
 
George turned swiftly round on me.
 
“Look here, can you............