Mrs. Porter watched him narrowly. She was more than ever impressed by the perfection of his physique. She appraised his voice as he spoke to the doctor. It gave evidence of excellent lungs. He was a wonderfully perfect physical specimen. An idea concerning this young man came into her mind, startling as all great ideas are at birth. The older it grew, the more she approved of it. She decided to put a few questions to him. She had a habit of questioning people, and it never occurred to her that they might resent it. If it had occurred to her, she would have done it just the same. She was like that. “Mr. Winfield?” “Yes?” “I should like to ask you a few questions.” This woman delighted Kirk. “Please do,” he said. Mrs. Porter scanned him closely. “You are an extraordinarily healthy man, to all appearances. Have you ever suffered from bad health?” “Measles.” “Immaterial.” “Very unpleasant, though.” “Nothing else?” “Mumps.” “Unimportant.” “Not to me. I looked like a water-melon.” “Nothing besides? No serious illnesses?” “None.” “What is your age?” “Twenty-five.” “Are your parents living?” “No.” “Were they healthy?” “Fit as fiddles.” “And your grandparents?” “Perfect bear-cats. I remember my grandfather at the age of about a hundred or something like that spanking me for breaking his pipe. I thought it was a steam-hammer. He was a wonderfully muscular old gentleman.” “Excellent.” “By the way,” said Kirk casually, “my life _is_ insured.” “Very sensible. There has been no serious illness in your family at all, then, as far as you know?” “I could hunt up the records, if you like; but I don’t think so.” “Consumption? No? Cancer? No? As far as you are aware, nothing? Very satisfactory.” “I’m glad you’re pleased.” “Are you married?” “Good Lord, no!” “At your age you should be. With your magnificent physique and remarkable record of health, it is your duty to the future of the race to marry.” “I’m not sure I’ve been worrying much about the future of the race.” “No man does. It is the crying evil of the day, men’s selfish absorption in the present, their utter lack of a sense of duty with regard to the future. Have you read my ‘Dawn of Better Things’?” “I’m afraid I read very few novels.” “It is not a novel. It is a treatise on the need for implanting a sense of personal duty to the future of the race in the modern young man.” “It sounds a crackerjack. I must get it.” “I will send you a copy. At the same time I will send you my ‘Principles of Selection’ and ‘What of To-morrow?’ They will make you think.” “I bet they will. Thank you very much.” “And now,” said Mrs. Porter, switching the conversation to the gaping George, “you had better put this man to bed.” George Pennicut’s opinion of Mrs. Porter, to which he was destined to adhere on closer acquaintance, may be recorded. “A hawful woman, sir,” he whispered as Kirk bore him off.