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Updated: May 14, 2025
"Admitted. But consider, Mr. Eassie, she has only seen the world in soirées. Every girl has her day-dreams, and Clarrie has perhaps made a dream of me. She is impulsive, given to idealisation, and hopelessly illogical." The minister moved uneasily in his chair.
Eassie was not so keen a logician as his guest, but he had age for a major premiss. He was easy-going rather than a coward; a preacher who, in the pulpit, looked difficulties genially in the face, and passed them by. Riach had a very long neck. He was twenty-five years of age, fair, and somewhat heavily built, with a face as inexpressive as book-covers.
"I have reasoned out her present relation to me," the young man went on, "and, the more you reduce it to the usual formulae, the more illogical it becomes. Clarrie could possibly describe me, but define me never. What is our prospect of happiness in these circumstances?" "But love " began Mr. Eassie. "Love!" exclaimed Andrew. "Is there such a thing?
"You have known each other a long time," said the minister. His guest was cleaning his pipe with a hair-pin, that his quick eye had detected on the carpet. "And she is devoted to you," continued Mr. Eassie. The young man nodded. "What I fear," he said, "is that we have known each other too long. Perhaps my feeling for Clarrie is only brotherly " "Hers for you, Andrew, is more than sisterly."
Reduce it to syllogistic form, and how does it look in Barbara?" For the moment there was almost some expression in his face, and he suffered from a determination of words to the mouth. "Love and logic," Mr. Eassie interposed, "are hardly kindred studies." "Is love a study at all?" asked Andrew, bitterly. "It is but the trail of idleness. But all idleness is folly; therefore, love is folly." Mr.
Eassie at his desk every time he looked up with his pen in his mouth until his wife died, when he ceased to notice things. The one picture on the walls, an engraving of a boy in velveteen, astride a tree, entitled "Boyhood of Bunyan," had started life with him.
Still, it is you who have insisted on discussing this question in the particular instance. Love in the abstract is of much greater moment." "I have sometimes thought, Andrew," Mr. Eassie said, "that you are lacking in the imaginative faculty." "In other words, love is a mere fancy. Grant that, and see to what it leads. By imagining that I have Clarrie with me I am as well off as if I really had.
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