“Don’t your fellow mortals interest you in the least?” he asked. “Rather.” “But not the question of marriage?” “Not a bit.” “But would you like to think that all these pretty girls could never find a mate—and fulfil their destiny?” “I always hope women will get everything they want, and if they are silly enough to want husbands, let ’em have ’em by all means.” “But my dear Gita, is it possible you don’t realize that woman’s one chance of authentic happiness lies in love and mating?” “I know they think it does—because they’ve been fed on traditions and are the slaves of custom. They’d be a long sight better off by themselves. Love is nothing but a cherished superstition.” “Oh, no, it is not! It’s the deepest and most inalienable of human instincts.” “Instinct is nothing but memory.” “Possibly. We’ll call it by another term. Imperative impulse. And the sex-impulse has its birth in the generative cells. It has nothing to do with tradition.” “I know that well enough. But you were talking of love. What has that to do with sex cells?” “Well! More than you seem to imagine. Do you really believe that love between men and women can exist independently of sex?” “Of course. Look at me. I love you even more than I do Elsie or Polly, and you might wear a one-piece dress for all the difference it would make.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Bylant, pardonably exasperated, almost struck a child in the face with his stick. “As it happens I don’t wear petticoats——” “We don’t either. Bloomers.” “Oh, you are impossible!” But he was forced to laugh. He made his voice gay and challenging. “Suppose I should fall in love with you?” “I don’t see you falling in love with anybody.” “You don’t?” “I’ve seen too much of men. They’re divided into three classes: beasts, fools, and intellectuals. You belong to the last and have a great gift besides. You’ve got something better to do than being an abject slave of the race—for that is what it amounts to—and your emotions are all in your head.” “And that represents your considered observation of intellectuals! Or are you the average American whose creed is: ‘Things are what I want them to be, not what they are’?” “Of course not,” said Gita crossly. “I wouldn’t recognize the beastliness and stupidity of human nature and of life if I were. But you are as cold-blooded as a codfish and I shouldn’t like you if you were not.” Bylant nearly strangled as he passed over the diagnosis. “Like? You said just now you loved me.” “Love only means preference raised a degree higher. Stop arguing on such a silly subject, Eustace. What’s come over you? This is the first time we’ve argued that I haven’t learned something.”