“Don’t let’s go back to that again,” she said, with frank impatience. “I thought we had settled that once for all.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean you,” he returned, apologetically.
“You didn’t mean me?” she repeated, in amazement. “Why, I thought—well, it’s no matter what I thought, of course.”
“I’m afraid I’m getting things all mixed up,” he said, calmly. “Of course, you are the only woman I love, and the only woman I ever shall love. I told you that the last time we met, and you told me that you didn’t love me—so that settled it.”
“Well?” she interrogated.
“Well, if I can’t have what I want,” he explained, “I’d better get what I need.”
“I confess I do not know what you are talking about,” she declared.
“It’s simple enough,” he returned. “I’m a doctor, and I’m young—I’m only thirty—and I haven’t a bald spot yet, so people think I’m even younger than I am, and they haven’t confidence in it. So I’ve got to get married.”
The girl laughed out merrily. “Can’t you get a bald spot any other way?” she asked.
“If I have a wife I don’t need a bald spot,” he responded. “A wife is a warrant of respectability. Every doctor will tell you that’s the way patients feel. I’m tired of going to see some old woman for Dr. Cheever, and sending up my card and overhearing her say: ‘I won’t see him! I don’t want Dr. Demarest! I sent for Dr. Cheever, and it’s Dr. Cheever I want to see!’ That has happened to me, and not only once or twice, either.”