Maynard gave him a quick, reproachful glance.
“Craig!” he exclaimed. “Was that your idea when—when—”
“When I proposed to her?” finished the Philosopher, equably. “Of course! What else should I have had in the way of an idea? Love?” Here he gave a sort of growling laugh. “Love? I’m too old—too ugly!—too battered and bruised in the battle of life to be conscious of any remedy for my disfigurements and disabilities,—but I’m quite capable of appreciating the comfort of a warm fireside, a pretty woman to look after me, and money to pay for these luxuries. I had all this in view when I suggested myself as a wall—”
“A wall?” repeated Maynard, bewildered. “What—”
“What meaning have I?” and the Philosopher gave another odd laugh. “I say a wall! ‘A sweet and lovely wall, that stand’st between her father’s ground and mine’—to quote the ever-quotable Shakespeare. I might say ‘I am that same wall’—who was willing to stand between your little girl and the roaring lion of the world—that is, if things had come to the worst,—if young Durham had died—if you had died—and she had been left alone,—then perhaps I—I might have been useful!” He paused a moment—Dr. Maynard was regarding him fixedly. “Now as matters have turned out, the ‘wall’ is unnecessary—Durham is all right, and you are all right—I am all right!”
Here he put his pipe in his mouth and drew a long whiff. Dr. Maynard leaned forward in his chair.
“Craig,” he said, slowly. “You are not altogether an open book—but I think I can read you!”
The Philosopher avoided his direct gaze.
“I dare say you can!” he murmured, abstractedly. “I don’t mind if you do! I’m an uncouth phrase in ‘The Deterioration of Language’!”
The old doctor’s eyes rested on him with intently sympathetic kindness.