“Tut, tut, lad!” protested Everell, with unfeigned lightness of heart; “take my word for it, a man can live out of England. What is it Shakespeare says, that my father used to quote when our fellow-countrymen visiting us would commiserate our exile? ‘There’s livers out of Britain.’ And that speech of Coriolanus, too: ‘I turned my back upon my native city and found a world elsewhere.’ ’Twould surprise some Englishmen to be convinced of it, I know, but indeed there is a world elsewhere. ’Tis a lovely country, Britain, I grant you, and would be my choice for living in, when all’s said and done, but—there’s livers out of it.”
“You talk as if ’twere only the leaving England,” said the other, with a sorrowful smile.
Everell was silent a moment, gazing at his friend as if to make out some sort of puzzle which had repeatedly baffled him. “Sure, ’tis more than I can understand,” he said, at last. “For that lady I have the profound respect and admiration which your own regard for her declares her due; for every lady who merits them I have respect and admiration: but this power of love, as I see it manifested in you! Give me leave, on the score of our friendship, to confide that it astonishes me. How a man can fret his soul over a woman, be miserable at the idea of parting from her, risk his life for a meeting with her—for though we find it the safer course now, it _was_ risking our lives to make that dash through the enemy’s lines and across the lowlands—”
“Yet you risked yours readily enough for mere friendship’s sake,” said Roughwood, breaking in upon the parenthesis, and so wrecking the sentence for ever.
“For friendship’s sake, yes!—brave comradeship, good company!—indeed, yes, and who would not? But for love of a girl!—why, ’tis worthy of Don Quixote! Forgive me: I speak only my mind.”
“Lad, lad, what is friendship in comparison with love of a girl—real love of a girl? You’ll sing another tune some day.”
“Never! I can assure you, never. I know not what the disease is, of which you speak. Certainly I’m now old enough to have had it if I ever was to be attacked.—Not that I don’t admire the beauty of women, and commend them for their gentleness,—when they _are_ gentle,—and compassionate their weakness as I do that of children, and find pleasure in their smiling faces, and soft eyes, and tender blushes. I can take joy enough in the society of a pretty creature when it falls my lot, and count it among the other amenities of life. I value the grace and goodness that high-minded women diffuse in this rough world. I can be happy with sensible women, and amuse myself with light ones. But as to being what you call _in love_, I have not fallen into that strange condition, and I can promise you I never shall. ’Tis not in my constitution.”