"I find that an American wife is a tormenting side-issue to a man's busy life," he said, with a tinge of regret. "And I am sorry, too—for they are most charming. For my part, I should like a woman who could do things—who was clever enough to be an inspiration."
I nodded heartily, forgetful of personalities.
"I too like the workers in the world," I coincided. "My ideal man is one whose name will be made into a verb."
He laughed.
"Like Marconi, eh, and Pasteur—and—"
"And Boycott, and Macadam, and—oh, a host of others!"
It was quite a full minute before he spoke again.
"I don't see how I could make my name into a verb," he said quietly, "but I must begin to think about it. It is certainly a valuable suggestion."
It was my turn to laugh, which I did, nervously.
"In Oldburgh, Tait seems to stand for the opposite of dictate," I hazarded. "That means to talk, and you won't—talk."