"I love her already. Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. And all the third act is love-sick music.
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