Chased all over the Prado

'What a devilish lot of fuss about nothing!' cried one of the large young men. 'I agree with Charlie. Listen, brothers, or half-brothers, for such you probably are. You all knew my wicked Uncle Fred: if not, you cannot be called wise children. The ugliest brute that ever lived! Very well, a well-known Irish poet he met at a horse-race gave him a love philtre (this is what he told me). At that time he was the backwardest young man in the world, being such a hobgoblin. Very well, he tries a tiny drop of this in desperation. It works! All his life long he uses just a teeny drop - has to resign his commission, barred from the paddock, chased all over the Prado, three duels, the happiest man in the world, and lowered the standard of beauty for the whole human race, especially Stalbert. He got such faith in his philtre, he never said a by-your-leave. Very well, he had it analysed just before he passed out - pure water!'

'Excuse me,' cried Willoughby in some disorder, 'I must leave you for an hour so: I've just remembered an appointment of the greatest importance. See you later.' He rushed out, and across the square. The air was soft and blue, full of the leaping of his heart, like the soft sudden flashes of electricity. On such a night...! There was a light in Lady Stumber's window.

He went to his room first, looked in the glass: his whole face had the air of a false moustache. 'Am I drunk? Perhaps I am a little drunk,' said he with a titter. 'Wine! Passion!'

He went down the little curling stairs, slipping a step or two in the darkness. He tapped at the inner door.

'What? Who's that?' cried the voice of his beloved.

'Me, me,' replied Willoughby.

'Wait a moment,' she cried. 'Don't come in. What is it?'

'Life and death. Most important,' said he, flinging open the door. 'Constance!'

'Willoughy! What do you want? What's the matter with you?'

'Love,' said Willoughby, bursting into a laugh of pure joy. 'Love.'

'Are you drunk?' she asked, as if unable to believe her ears.

'On love!' said he, with a half-bow. 'Your hands, your arms, shoulders, neck, all!' With that he seized her, and aimed a series of kisses at each of the first four items as he named it.

'Do you want me to call for help?' said Lady Stumber firmly. 'I will call. I will.'

'Constance. Goddesses are for everyone.'

'Stop. I won't call, if only you'll be quiet for a moment. Listen. Please.' A table fell with a crash. He continued to imprint kisses at an incredible rate. Between them he panted, for Lady Stumber wriggled amazingly. 'You are tearing my clothes,' she cried.

'Yes, she has noticed it too!' thought Willoughby. 'We notice the same things! Besides, she is not calling. Love!'

John Collier, Defy The Foul Fiend (1934)