"Nothing on your mind, I suppose?" suggested Burns.
"I supposed you'd ask me that stock question. Why shouldn't there be something on my mind? Is there anybody whose mind is free from a weight of some sort?" demanded Gardner Coolidge. His thin face flushed a little.
"Nobody," admitted Burns promptly. "The question is whether the weight on yours is one that's got to stay there or whether you may be rid of it. Would you care to tell me anything about it? I'm a pretty old friend, you know."
Coolidge was silent for a full minute, then he spoke with evident reluctance: "It won't do a particle of good to tell, but I suppose, if I consult you, you have a right to know the facts. My wife—has gone back to her father."
"On a visit?" Burns inquired.
Coolidge stared at him. "That's like you, Red," he said, irritation in his voice again. "What's the use of being brutal?"
"Has she been gone long enough for people to think it's anything more than a visit?"
"I suppose not. She's been gone two months. Her home is in California."
"Then she can be gone three without anybody's thinking trouble. By the end of that third month you can bring her home," said Burns comfortably. He leaned back in his swivel-chair, and stared hard at the ceiling.
Coolidge made an exclamation of displeasure and got to his feet. "If you don't care to take me seriously—" he began.