Carl, while having enjoyed life, became a man of reserve and had never been anxious to be led to the slaughter at the altar of matrimony. He did not want to be a husband on paper only. He also knew that man might come too late, but woman never. But he was not a foolish boy who wrote letters to a smart girl, who saved them with a definite object in view. He knew, too, that passionate love is the source of little pleasure and of much suffering. Would Sana leave the desert soil of her birth for his sake? Passion he once called evil, but now planted in his heart it became virtue and joy. He and she would be well matched. Carl had found his ideal. Observations covering many years had taught him that most men are fools so far as women are concerned and that women are the most dangerous playthings God ever devised. But, he reasoned, this was generally caused by man’s own faults. The favor Sana would win, as his wife, among his friends he pictured in the brightest colors. It did occur to him that Sana, with feminine instinct, and so bewitching and beautiful a siren, could easily turn his vision of paradise into real hell, after she had brought him through a maelstrom of mad passion, which she would unquestionably arouse after having realized her full powers. “For woman, nothing is impossible” used to be a saying of his. But now, no such thoughts entered his head. He was too much in love! This time he was sure of it. There had been times in his life when he had thought himself in love, but luckily he realized the true state of affairs before too late. How much sorrow and unhappiness could be spared us mortals if we could but see what the future will bring. Carl now thought of what had happened about a year before. At that time he was sure he loved a girl, Dorinda, a young cloak model. He had taken lodgings temporarily in a rooming house in New York, and it so happened that Dorinda had the room over him. He had met her casually and they had taken a great liking for each other. Dorinda was of the distinct flapper type, pretty to be sure, a good dresser, but a girl without much sense. Her one real ability, he now knew, was her art of weeping. You know the sort. The girl who crying bitterly relates her hard luck stories to arouse your sympathy and generosity. Resolved though he was against this very sort of thing, Carl like most men proved an easy, and perhaps willing, victim. That she came home at all hours of the morning or entertained men in her rooms until late into the night did not trouble Carl. His faith told him it was all right.