“How could any woman be so unlady-like?” the girl asked, indignantly. “She must have been a vulgar old thing!”
“There’s more than one of her in New York,” the young doctor asserted, “and that’s one reason why I’ve got to get married. And between you and me, I think my chance of staying with Dr. Cheever would be better if I had a wife. Of course, he doesn’t say so, but I can’t help knowing what he thinks.”
The girl made no comment on this, and they rode along side by side. They were now on the crest of a hill, and they overlooked the broad expanse of the reservoir. The almost level rays of the sinking sun thrust themselves through the leafy branches and made a rosy halo about her fair head.
“So that’s why I’ve come to you for advice,” he began again.
“But I don’t see what good my advice will be to you,” she returned. “You don’t expect me to pick out a wife for you, do you?”
“Well, that’s about it!” he admitted.
“The idea!” she retorted. “Why, it’s perfectly absurd!”
“So long as I cannot get the girl I love, marriage ceases to be a matter of sentiment with me,” he went on, stolidly. “I come to you as a friend who knows girls—knows them in a way no man can ever know them. I want your help in selecting a woman who will make a good wife for a doctor.”
“How do you know she will have you?” she thrust at him.
“Of course, I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can’t know till I try, can I? And if at first I don’t succeed I must try, try again. If the one you pick out refuses me I’ll have to get you to pick out another.”