“I haven’t forgotten my campaign for judge,” said Helm. “Bill, I’ve learned a thing or two about practical politics. I’m going to play cards--not play the fool.” “Why not marry Clara Hollister?” cried Desbrough, suddenly inspired. “Would she have you?” asked Helm. “_Me?_ Good Lord, what’d _I_ do with another wife? I had _one_, and am paying alimony. No, I mean _you_ marry Clara.” Helm laughed uproariously. “Take another look at me, Bill,” said he. “You’ve forgotten.” “Women don’t know anything about handsome and ugly in men,” said Bill. “Besides, you’re not what _women’d_ call plain. Don’t laugh, George. I’d back you to win any woman you took after. A man that can catch crowds can catch a woman. With a woman, it isn’t what a man _looks_. It’s what he _says_--and does.” “I’ve got no woman-talk,” said Helm. “You can grab off Clara Hollister if you want her--and she has twenty thousand a year in her own right. And she’ll let you do what you please with it.” “Her father’s the head devil in these parts of the gang I’m after.” “The twenty thousand’s hers. She’s a good deal of a snob, but she’d be what you wanted her to be, if you married her. That’s the way it is with women.” “Was that your experience?” “I spoke from experience,” replied Desbrough, undaunted. “I made my wife over when I married her--and then didn’t like the job. I’d rather pay alimony than be constantly reminded of my failure.” “No--I can’t marry for independence,” said Helm. “She wouldn’t have me and--I don’t want her.” “Then--why not that friend of hers--that Miss Clearwater? I saw you talking to her down the street one day before the election. She’d be less easy to manage than Clara. But no woman’s difficult--for a firm man who’s patient and can keep his temper--and isn’t in love.” Helm had become acutely self-conscious and so awkward that a chair which was apparently not near his path became involved with his big feet and fell on its side with a crash. As Helm straightened from picking it up, he was extraordinarily red for the amount of exertion. Said he: “Leave the women out of it. I’m not a marrying man.” Desbrough laughed mockingly. “You’ll find out you’re mistaken--as soon as you’ve got money enough to make it worth a needy woman’s while to take after you. _I_ thought _I_ wasn’t a marrying man. Three months and four days after my uncle died and left me that money I was waiting at the altar.” “I’m not a marrying man,” repeated Helm awkwardly. “In some ways Miss Clearwater would be just the girl for you. She’d take an interest in your career. She has ideals--and they’re about as far removed from her father’s as a church from a speak-easy. I think she’s got money of her own. Yes, I’m sure she has. Her mother left her what the old man had settled on her.”