She shook her head. “I don’t know a single rich man--except _possibly_ my brother--who isn’t obsessed about money. The rich have a craving to be richer that’s worse than the desire of the poor to be rich.... I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t bring up children in the atmosphere of wealth and caste and show--the sort of atmosphere a man or woman crazy about money insists on creating. My father was right. He was a really wise man. I owe to him every good instinct and good idea I have.” “But you must have seen some man who promised well. I think you can trust to your judgment. You mustn’t defeat your one chance for happiness by overcaution.” Again she was silent for several minutes. Then she said, with a queer laugh and an embarrassed movement: “I have seen such a man--lately. I like him. I think I could like him more than a little. I’ve an idea he might care for me if I’d let him. But--I don’t know.” I saw that she longed to confide, but wished to be questioned. “Here on the yacht?” said I. She nodded. “Beechman?” She laughed shyly yet with amusement. “That was an easy guess,” said I. “He’s the only man of us free to marry.” “What do you think of him?” “The very man I’d say,” replied I. “He’s good to look at--clever, healthy, and honest. He isn’t money-mad. He could make quite a splurge with what he has, yet he doesn’t. He is a serious man--does not let them tempt him into fashionable society or any other kind.” “What are the objections?” said she. “My father trained us to look for the rotten spots, as he called them. He said one ought to hunt them out and examine them carefully. Then if, in spite of them, the thing still looked good, why there was a chance of its being worth taking.” “That’s precisely my way of proceeding in business,” said I. “It’s a pity it isn’t used in every part of life--from marketing up to choosing a friend or a husband.” “Well, what are the ‘rotten spots’ in Mr. Beechman?” “I haven’t looked for them,” said I. “No doubt they’re there, but as they’re not obvious they may be unimportant.” “Can’t you think of _any_?” She was laughing, and so was I. Poor Beechman, down in the cabin absorbed in bridge, how amazed he’d have been if he could have heard! In my mind’s eye I was looking him over--a tall, fair man with good smooth-shaven features. “He’s getting bald rather rapidly for a man of thirty or thereabouts,” said I. “I don’t like baldness,” said she. “But I can endure it.” “He is distinctly vain of his looks and his strength. But he has cause to be.” “All men are physically vain,” said she. “And they can’t help it, because it is the hereditary quality of the male from fishes and reptiles up.” “He’s inclined to be opinionated, and his point of view is narrow.” “I think I might hope to educate him out of that,” said she. “I can be tactful.” “It’s certainly not a serious objection.” “Any other spots?”