Helm laughed uproariously. “Take another look at me, Bill,” said he. “You’ve forgotten.”
“Women don’t know anything about handsome and ugly in men,” said Bill. “Besides, you’re not what women’d call plain. Don’t laugh, George. I’d back you to win any woman you took after. A man that can catch crowds can catch a woman. With a woman, it isn’t what a man looks. It’s what he says—and does.”
“I’ve got no woman-talk,” said Helm.
“You can grab off Clara Hollister if you want her—and she has twenty thousand a year in her own right. And she’ll let you do what you please with it.”
“Her father’s the head devil in these parts of the gang I’m after.”
“The twenty thousand’s hers. She’s a good deal of a snob, but she’d be what you wanted her to be, if you married her. That’s the way it is with women.”
“Was that your experience?”
“I spoke from experience,” replied Desbrough, undaunted. “I made my wife over when I married her—and then didn’t like the job. I’d rather pay alimony than be constantly reminded of my failure.”
“No—I can’t marry for independence,” said Helm. “She wouldn’t have me and—I don’t want her.”
“Then—why not that friend of hers—that Miss Clearwater? I saw you talking to her down the street one day before the election. She’d be less easy to manage than Clara. But no woman’s difficult—for a firm man who’s patient and can keep his temper—and isn’t in love.”