"Lucky for it," said Holt, "for if it were it would be a worse swindle than it is now, and that's going some. What _was_ it ordained for? Babies?" "Yes." "What? There are fifty of 'em born outside of marriage right here in New York every day in the year. When Romeo makes eyes at Juliet, he isn't thinking babies." "He only doesn't know that he is, that's all." "Suppose you're right," said Holt; "that's all the more reason why a fellow should want to beget a baby instead of marrying one. Look here, Jim: I'm not butting in on your affairs because I like to; but I know what I'm talking about when I say you can't play this lead without spoiling the game." "Do you mean," asked Stainton, "that Miss Stannard's guardians will object?" "Hardly. Her guardians are the Newberrys." "Then what do you mean?" Holt interpreted. "I mean," he said, "that you won't be happy with a child for a wife, and that a child won't be happy with you for a husband." Stainton started to rise from the table. Then he seemed to think better, seemed to recall his old and brief, but firm, friendship with the Holt of Holt's western days, and sat back in his chair. "Jim," continued Holt, "you're actually in earnest about all this marrying-talk, aren't you?" "So much so," replied Stainton, frowning, "that I don't care to have you refer to it in that way." "Oh, all right. I beg pardon. I didn't intend to make you sore. Only it won't do, you know. Really." "Why not?" "I've just been telling you why not. Difference in ages. Too great." Stainton's face became graver. He leaned forward toward Holt, pushed his glass aside and, with his heavy forefinger, tapped for emphasis upon the board. "I told you," he said, "that your best New York doctor has pronounced me to all intents and purposes only twenty-five years old." "O, Hell!" said Holt. Stainton's brows drew close together. "I mean what I say," he declared. "Of course you do. But did the doctor-fellow mean what _he_ said?" "Why shouldn't he? I paid him to tell the truth. He probably thought I suspected some illness, so that, from his point of view, there would have seemed more money in it for him if he had said I needed treatment--his treatment." "Perhaps. But medicine isn't an exact science yet--not by several thousand graveyards full." "What of that? I didn't need the doctor's assurances--really. I have my own feelings to go by." "Yes, I know. I've heard all that before. Many a time. A woman's as old as she looks, but a man's as young as he feels--per_haps_." "A man is as old as his arteries--and a few other units of his physical economy." "And a girl," said Holt, significantly, "is no older than the--what is it?--units of _her_ physical economy." Stainton bit his under lip.