"I don't know about that, but--you're a corking good talker. Excuse my archaic English." Mrs. Cortlandt turned her eyes upon the speaker, and he saw that they were very bright. "I've been thinking about what you told me the other day," he ran on, "about myself. Remember?" "I'm glad I have the knack of making something besides football signals stick in your memory," said she. "Have you been thinking about that girl I spoke of?" "Yes," he replied, ingenuously. "I've been making up my mind to ask you if you happen to have a sister--an unmarried sister, I mean." Mrs. Cortlandt laughed appreciatively. "No, I have no sister, but I thank you for the compliment. I suppose you meant it for one?" "Yes. I hope you don't mind." "Not at all. I'm quite sure now that my notion about you was right. It will take a woman to make a man of you." "It used to be my wind that troubled me," said the athlete, mournfully. "Now it seems to be my heart." "It doesn't seem to be seriously affected as yet, but it's remarkable the number of ways in which the heart of man may be reached. I remember once having breakfast in a queer little restaurant in the French quarter of New Orleans, famous for its cooking and for the well-known people who had eaten there. There was a sort of register which the guests were asked to sign, and in looking it over I read the inscription of one particularly enthusiastic diner. It ran, 'Oh, Madame Begue, your liver has touched my heart,' and the story is that the writer made desperate love to the proprietor's wife." "Oh, come, that's rather hard on me. I have some emotions besides a hearty appreciation of food." "No doubt. I only mentioned that as one of the ways, and, seriously, I am convinced that, however your awakening may come, you will be the better for it." "I do hope the cook will prove to be unmarried," he mused. "Imagine having to do away with a husband who can handle a cleaver." "Oh, I don't mean you should necessarily marry the woman. It would be quite as good for you if she refused even to look at you. However, let us hope that you meet some nice American girl--" "Why not a senorita? You have inspired me with Spanish romance." But Mrs. Cortlandt shook her head. "Wait until you have seen them." "Already I imagine myself under some moonlit balcony teasing chords out of a guitar. I have rather a good singing voice, you know." "It is not done that way nowadays. Panama is Americanized. You will need a pianola and an automobile." "And all the romance is gone?" "Oh, there is romance everywhere; there is quite as much in Pittsburg as in Andalusia. But to speak of more practical things"--Mrs. Cortlandt hesitated slightly--"I heard you tell the purser the other day about your financial troubles, and it occurred to me that Mr. Cortlandt might assist you."