Cauldwell was perhaps ten years older than I, but being a well-taken-care-of New Yorker, he passed for a young man—which, indeed, he was. I do not regard fifty as anything but young unless it insists upon another estimate by looking older than it really is. I shall assuredly be young at fifty, perhaps younger than I am now, for I take better care of my health every year—and I have health worth taking care of. But, as I was about to say, Cauldwell had a meditative look that night as we sat down to dinner together. And when he had drunk his third glass of champagne he said:
“Loring, why the devil don’t you get married?”
I felt that he had something especial to say to me. I answered indifferently, “Why don’t you?”
“Very simple,” replied he. “Not rich enough. To marry in New York a man must be either a pauper or a Crœsus.”
“Then marry a rich girl,” said I.
“I’d have done it long ago if I could,” he confessed with a laugh. “But I’ve never been able to get at the girls who are rich enough. Their mammas guard them for plutocrats or titles. But you— Really, it’s a shame for you to stay single. I know a dozen women who’re losing sleep longing for you—for themselves, or for some lovely young daughter.”
“Pathetic,” said I.
“I see that irritates you. Well—you needn’t be alarmed. You’re famed for being about the wariest bird in the preserves. And I know you don’t want that kind of woman. Why not take the kind you do want?”
“Where is she?” said I.
“I could name a dozen,” rejoined he. “But I shan’t name any. I have one in mind. A doctor has the best opportunity in the world to find out about women—about men, too—the truth about them.”