His smile was not a denial. “Yes, I’ve been rather credulous, I’ll admit,” said he. “And men and women do tell the most astounding whoppers about themselves. Especially women, having trouble with their husbands. I try not to believe, but I’m caught every once in a while.” A gleam in his eye made me wonder whether he wasn’t thinking of some yarn Edna had spun for him about me. Probably. There are precious few women, even among the fairly close-mouthed, who don’t take advantage of the family doctor to indulge in the passion for romancing. “But I wasn’t thinking of any confession,” he went on. “Several women have confessed a secret passion for you to me--with the hope that I’d help them. The woman I have in mind isn’t that sort. I don’t know that she cares anything about you. I only know that she’s exactly the woman for you.” “Interesting,” said I. “She’s young--unusually pretty--and in a distinguished way. She knows how to run a house as a home--and she’s about the only woman I know in our class who does. She’s got a good mind--not for a woman, but for anybody. And she needs a husband and children and a home.” He must have misunderstood the peculiar expression of my face, for he hastened on: “Not that she’s poor. On the contrary, she’s rich. I’d not recommend a poor girl to you. Poor girls can think of nothing but money--naturally.” “Everybody, rich and poor, thinks of money--naturally,” said I. “Guess you’re right,” laughed he. “But it _looks_ worse in a poor girl.” “I should say the opposite. A feeding glutton looks worse than a feeding famished man.” “At any rate--this woman I have in mind isn’t poor. That’s not a disadvantage, is it?” “Not a hopeless obstacle,” said I. “By the way, what _are_ her disadvantages?” “Well--she’s been married before.” “So have I,” said I. “But, on the other hand, she has no children.” “Neither have I,” said I, without thinking. I hastened to add, “My only child is married.” “And splendidly married,” said he with the snob’s enthusiasm. “To return to the lady,” said I dryly. “Why don’t you marry her yourself?” He had drunk several more glasses of the champagne. He laughed. “She wouldn’t look at _me_. She sees straight through me. She wants a man with domestic tastes. I’m about as fit for domestic life as a fire-engine horse for an old maid’s phæton.” “Well--who is it?” said I. “I’m afraid you’ll think she’s been at me to help her. But, on my honor, Loring, she isn’t that sort. We’ve talked of you. For some reason, ever since I’ve known her--well, I’ve never seen her without thinking of you. I often talk of you to her--not marrying talk--I’d not dare--but in a friendly sort of way. She listens--says nothing.” “But she is sickly,” said I. “Sickly?” he cried. He looked horrified and amazed. “Good Lord, what gave you that notion?” “You said you saw her often.” “Oh, I see. It was her brother who had the illness.”