“What do you mean by that, Mr. Loveman?”
“I couldn’t help seeing what was in your mind, my dear. You’ve been trying to reform Jack. You believe that if you can steady Jack down permanently—make a real responsible man of him, which is what everybody else has failed to do so far—that you’ll make yourself so solid with both of the Mortons, so much of a necessity, that they’ll forgive whatever you’ve done and gladly take you on as a regular member of the family. And as a member of the family you believe you’ll add to the Morton dignity and prestige.”
“You think I can’t do that as well as any woman?” Mary demanded.
“That part of it you’d do better than any other woman!” Loveman hastened to reply. “But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what comes before that—your plan to make a man out of Jack. You never can do that.”
“Why not?”
“Several reasons. Chiefly because Jack can’t be made a man of.”
“I can do it.”
“Mary, let’s quit kidding ourselves,” Loveman returned gravely, quietly. “Unless you’re with Jack constantly you can’t influence him. And if you’ve seen Jack during the last ten days you’ve done more than any one else has.”
Mary tried to speak calmly. “Jack recently left New York on a hunting trip.”
Loveman shook his head. “Shooting would never take Jack away from New York; certainly not for ten days. He’s just—I think you understand.” He regarded Mary keenly. “You know Jack’s old reputation; he used to show more speed than any man who ever entered the Broadway Free-for-All. He never cared much for song—but he was all for the other two members of the old trio. The last bottle was Jack’s quitting place, and daybreak was his bedtime.”