"I shan't be tragic," he began; "for, as I said, there may be—in fact, there must be—some purely natural explanation. Of course, you never met young Carhart; for he came here while you were away. He had but few acquaintances in New York; for, although he brought good letters from Boston, where his people lived, he had not chosen to present them. He was a most attractive sort—half-back at Harvard, stroke-oar and all the rest. Great fellow in the Hasty Pudding Club, and poet of his class, but just a trifle—shall I say—susceptible and—"
"Soft," I suggested.
"No," contradicted Barton; "though, to tell the truth, he never could resist a pretty face. That was his failing."
"Remarkable man!" Willoughby commented, with fervor.
"He was," assented Barton. "In that respect, at least. He carried it too far. He wanted to marry every good-looking girl he met. He would have been married a dozen times before he graduated, had not his friends interfered."
"Thank heaven for friends!" commented Willoughby, with still more fervor.
"Till at last," continued Barton, now sufficiently himself to punctuate his narrative with occasional whiffs of his cigar, "at last Carhart fell under the influence of a widow."
"A designing widow," I put in, to make the situation clearer.
"Attractive?" Willoughby inquired.
"Oh, decidedly."