"You think so?"
"I'm perfectly sure of it—you'll be so satisfied to be in that you'll eat out of their hands. You may be the devil in business and the stock market—also adamant—but you'll be an innocent little lamb and a wax baby in the women's game. They won't pick your pockets—oh no! you'll hand out everything you have and hustle for more to give them—and do it cheerfully."
"You seem to be wise!" Porshinger retorted.
"I am wiser than you, at any rate. You've been too absorbed in acquiring money to give any time to the petticoats—except those of a certain kind, and you don't learn anything from them but bargain and sale. You have a new experience coming, old man, a new experience! These people don't care a damn for your money——"
"Then why am I asked?" Porshinger interrupted.
"Because you're wanted—for some other reason."
"Hum!" said Porshinger. "Maybe I'm wanted to play the clown."
"It is entirely possible!" laughed Woodside: "though a likelier guess would be that they want to inspect you—to size you up, and to try you out, and to play Auction with you. However, you've got two of them at an advantage—that kiss on the piazza last night ought to be good for something."
Porshinger blew a cloud of smoke high in the air and watched it whirl away on the morning breeze.