"Oh, I know what you mean, of course. I've been 'tried as by fire'—eh? Well, I dare say I have—and I've been found woefully wanting. But enough of this!" he broke off abruptly, springing to his feet. "You don't happen to know of a young woman who has the skill of experience, the wisdom of age, the adaptability of youth, and the patience of Job all in one, do you?" he demanded.
The doctor turned with startled eyes.
"Why, Burke, after all this, you don't mean—"
"No, it's not a wife I'm looking for," interposed Burke, with a whimsical shrug. "It's a—a stenographer or private secretary, only she must be much more than the ordinary kind. I want to catalogue all this truck father and I have accumulated. She must know French and German—a little Greek and Hebrew wouldn't be amiss. And I want one that would be interested in this sort of thing—one who will realize she isn't handling—er—potatoes, say. My eyes are going back on me, too, and I shall want her to read to me; so I must like her voice. I don't want anything, you see," he smiled grimly.
"I should say not," laughed the doctor, rising. "But before you can give me any more necessary qualifications, I guess I'd better be going to bed."
"I don't wonder, after the harangue I've given you. But—you don't know of such a person, do you?"
"I don't."
"No, I suppose not—nor anybody else," finished Burke Denby, a profound gloom that had become habitual settling over his face.
"If I do I'll send her to you," nodded the doctor, halfway through the door. The doctor was in a hurry to get up to his room—he had a letter to write.
"Thanks," said Burke Denby, still dryly, as he waved his hand in good-night.