“The very man I’d say,” replied I. “He’s good to look at—clever, healthy, and honest. He isn’t money-mad. He could make quite a splurge with what he has, yet he doesn’t. He is a serious man—does not let them tempt him into fashionable society or any other kind.”
“What are the objections?” said she. “My father trained us to look for the rotten spots, as he called them. He said one ought to hunt them out and examine them carefully. Then if, in spite of them, the thing still looked good, why there was a chance of its being worth taking.”
“That’s precisely my way of proceeding in business,” said I. “It’s a pity it isn’t used in every part of life—from marketing up to choosing a friend or a husband.”
“Well, what are the ‘rotten spots’ in Mr. Beechman?”
“I haven’t looked for them,” said I. “No doubt they’re there, but as they’re not obvious they may be unimportant.”
“Can’t you think of any?”
She was laughing, and so was I. Poor Beechman, down in the cabin absorbed in bridge, how amazed he’d have been if he could have heard! In my mind’s eye I was looking him over—a tall, fair man with good smooth-shaven features.
“He’s getting bald rather rapidly for a man of thirty or thereabouts,” said I.
“I don’t like baldness,” said she. “But I can endure it.”
“He is distinctly vain of his looks and his strength. But he has cause to be.”