I expect her idea was for me to put him through the third degree so subtle he wouldn't suspect. Well, leavin' Sadie gazin' into a jew'lry window, I overhauls him and does my best.

"Say, Monty," says I, jabbin' him playful in the ribs, "how about you and that Miss Adams? Did you follow her to the frost line, or what?"

"That's an excellent way to put it, McCabe," says he. "And I'm chilly yet from the experience."

"Sporty lad!" says I. "Did you try to hold her hand, or something like that?"

"What!" he gasps. "Try to hold hands with the stately Miss Adams? Heaven forbid! I'm not absolutely reckless, you know. It was in our first confidential chat that I went on the rocks. We'd discussed polo for half an hour, until I found she knew more about the English team than I did. Why, she'd visited at Hurlingham House during the practice matches. So I floundered about, trying to shift the subject, until we hit on antique vases—deuced if I know why. But my Governor dabbled in such junk a bit, you know, and I suppose I thought, from having heard him talk, that I was up on antiques. But, say, hanged if she couldn't name more kinds than I ever knew existed! Rippled on about Pompeian art, and Satsuma ware, and Egyptian tear jugs as readily as Ted Keefe, my stable manager, would about ponies. I tried again and asked if she'd seen many of the new plays, and the next thing I knew I was bluffing through a dialogue about Galsworthy and Masefield and Sudermann on an experience strictly limited to musical comedies and Belasco's latest. Whe-e-e-ew! I made my escape after that. Say, isn't it a shame a girl with eyes like hers should know so blamed much?"

I couldn't help grinnin' at Monty, and when I picks up Sadie again I gives her the diagnosis.

"Case of springin' the highbrow chatter on a sportin' chappy that wears a fifteen and a half collar and a six and three-quarters hat," says I. "He's as thankful as if he'd come through a train wreck with his cigarette still lighted. You ought to tip Veronica to chop her lines and work the spell with her eyes."

"Pooh!" says Sadie. "Monty never had a chance, anyway. You can't expect a brilliant girl like Veronica to be satisfied with a husband who's at his best only when he's knocking a goal or leading a hunt, even if he is big and handsome."

But with this as a clew I figured out how two or three of the other candidates came to side-step so abrupt. The average Johnny is all right so long as the debate is confined to gossipy bits about the latest Reno recruits, or who's to be asked to Mrs. Stuyve Fish's next dinner dance; but cut loose on anything serious and you have him grabbin' for the lifeline.

There was two, though, that came through to the finals, as you might say. One was this German guy, Baron Düsseldorf; and the other was young Beverley Duer, whose fad is takin' movin' pictures of wild animals in their native jungles and givin' private movie shows in the Plaza ballroom. Some strong on the wise conversation himself, Beverley is. He paints a bit, plays the 'cello pretty fair, has a collection of ivory carvin's, and has traveled all over the lot. You can't faze him with the snappy repartee, either; for that's his specialty.