Now all of this might have been said concerning one Doctor John Rem, of whom they had never heard. And John Estover might have added that, when two people predisposed to what he had called guile met, one as tempter, one willing to be tempted, the danger was excessive. Nay, had he known this Doctor Rem, he would have taken every precaution that he and his daughter Mary Ann should not meet. For Rem had left behind at college an example for the emulation of sophomore hoodlums. And now, just returned from college, filled with really valuable learning concerning disease, but having no practice at all and much idleness, it was exceedingly dull and he exceedingly ready for amorous experiment. And you may be sure that if it should happen to come in the shape of a pretty Quaker, it would be only a little more piquant. All these sayings are necessary—though, I admit, somewhat dull—that you may understand the doings between this very doctor and this very Quaker maid. For you cannot suppose that I have them both in the same story for any other purpose than such troublous joys as make up that curious thing called love. II PATCHOULY Now it happened that while their discussion was at this point, the subject of it arrived. She did not at all come as a Quaker maiden ought, but like a breeze when the door is let suddenly open. And, indeed, in the coming, she had left the door open. Her father solemnly closed it. Meanwhile she had pounced upon her mother and kissed her, and now she attacked her father in the same way. “Thank thee, daddy,” she laughed, and when he put her off, none too strongly, she ran up the stairs, still laughing, whence she called downward for her mother. John stopped Ann as she would have gone, and, sniffing stealthily, pointed with his glasses up the stairs, saying ominously: “Perfume!” She sniffed and smiled. “Patchouly!” she murmured. “John, it is my fault. I told her some things about myself the other day. They made us both very happy. I _must_ tell some one. I think I mentioned patchouly. I thought it was extinct. What a time she must have had getting it!” John frowned. “Yea, yea—she takes after thee.” “And is that so bad—as long as it is only kisses and perfume?” He had sat quite hopelessly in his chair, with his head turned. Before he could resist, her arms were about him and she had kissed him and was gone to the steps. There she paused—on the third step—looking as she had looked long ago—she never seemed to get older—as John thought she ought—and called: “John!” Her husband looked. And, looking, he had to smile. No one could have helped doing that. “John, I love thee, anyhow!” And she rebelliously and defiantly sniffed the perfume and ran up the stair—precisely as Mary Ann had done. “Takes after her mother,” he sighed—and smiled. For another thought had come with the smile. “Or does her mother take after her?”