The youth turned a frowning face to his vis-à-vis. “Why, oh, why, Mrs. Brevoort,” he cried, “will you check the natural flow of my spirits by so dire a prophecy? Think of the awful fate that awaits me, if your words are true! I acknowledge that I have seen other men, perhaps as hard to suit as I am myself, falling into the clutches of spotless young girls who have lured them into the awful maelstrom of marriage; but I swear to you that I shall profit by their experience. I should never marry because I wanted a parlor ornament. When I give up my liberty, I shall insist upon a quid pro quo.”
“What in the world is that, Mr. Strong?” cried Mrs. Brevoort, looking shocked as she glanced up at him with exaggerated amazement.
“That’s Latin,” answered the youth densely. “It’s a dead language, but I used it for a very live purpose. I am not talking at random, you know, Mrs. Brevoort. There is method in my madness.”
Ned Strong looked down at his companion meaningly, but she refused to meet his gaze.
“But method never yet saved madness from disaster,” she remarked, sagely.
Her words seemed to check the youth’s impetuosity, for he cast a pleading glance at her averted face and then wheeled forward in silence for a time.
“The fact is,” he began again, after he had renewed his courage, “the fact is, Mrs. Brevoort, that you don’t understand me.”
A smile that he could not see from his exalted perch crossed the widow’s face. It is only a very young man who ever dares to tell a woman that she does not weigh him justly. The average man may deceive other men; it takes a genius to blind a woman.
“Explain yourself,” she urged, not too warmly.
“I don’t want to give you the impression,” he went on, hesitatingly, “you know, that I don’t admire women—that is, some women, don’t you see?”