me, and then you kept your identity concealed. You did not even care to speak to me of bygone days. I don't think you loved me so very deeply."
"Now, listen. Was I not told that the lady of my heart was betrothed to another? When I found she did not even recognise me, I thought it wise not to make myself known to her. You do not love Chotu, the friend of your childhood, you love the new man, the doctor."
"And you do not love me, you love the companion of your childhood."
I thought at one time that individuality disappeared in love, and that love was all self-abnegation, but now I find that as light and shade are both required for a landscape, so altercations an demands are also adjuncts of love, and in this way love is kept ever young.
At any rate in our lives love is full of challenge. "You do not love me," I say mockingly, "you love the companion of your childhood."
"You do not love me," is the inevitable reply. "You love the man you met at your sister's house, the doctor."
And now I leave it to the judgment of the
