The
third alternative, that he might be in love, I rejected at once. In all
the time I had known him I had never seen a sign that George Mackintosh
gave a thought to the opposite sex.
Yet this, bizarre as it seemed, was the true solution. Scarcely had he
seated himself and lit a cigar when he blurted out his confession.
"What would you do in a case like this?" he said.
"Like what?"
"Well----" He choked, and a rich blush permeated his surface. "Well, it
seems a silly thing to say and all that, but I'm in love with Miss
Tennant, you know!"
"You are in love with Celia Tennant?"
"Of course I am. I've got eyes, haven't I? Who else is there that any
sane man could possibly be in love with? That," he went on, moodily,
"is the whole trouble. There's a field of about twenty-nine, and I
should think my place in the betting is about thirty-three to one."
"I cannot agree with you there," I said. "You have every advantage, it
appears to me. You are young, amiable, good-looking, comfortably off,
scratch----"
"But I can't talk, confound it!" he burst out.
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