I laughed. “If I wanted misinformation about human nature,” said I, “I’d go to a doctor—or a preacher. They’re the depositories of all the hysterical tommyrot, all the sentimental lies that vain women and men think out about themselves and their sex relations.”
His smile was not a denial. “Yes, I’ve been rather credulous, I’ll admit,” said he. “And men and women do tell the most astounding whoppers about themselves. Especially women, having trouble with their husbands. I try not to believe, but I’m caught every once in a while.”
A gleam in his eye made me wonder whether he wasn’t thinking of some yarn Edna had spun for him about me. Probably. There are precious few women, even among the fairly close-mouthed, who don’t take advantage of the family doctor to indulge in the passion for romancing.
“But I wasn’t thinking of any confession,” he went on. “Several women have confessed a secret passion for you to me—with the hope that I’d help them. The woman I have in mind isn’t that sort. I don’t know that she cares anything about you. I only know that she’s exactly the woman for you.”
“Interesting,” said I.
“She’s young—unusually pretty—and in a distinguished way. She knows how to run a house as a home—and she’s about the only woman I know in our class who does. She’s got a good mind—not for a woman, but for anybody. And she needs a husband and children and a home.”
He must have misunderstood the peculiar expression of my face, for he hastened on:
“Not that she’s poor. On the contrary, she’s rich. I’d not recommend a poor girl to you. Poor girls can think of nothing but money—naturally.”
“Everybody, rich and poor, thinks of money—naturally,” said I.
“Guess you’re right,” laughed he. “But it looks worse in a poor girl.”