med, had not hidden the rapid rise
and fall of her breast at the confession of my fears. The inquietude
of her manner, the curiosity which had permitted me to finish my
story, were proof convincing that her interests in Jerry were more
than ordinarily involved, and the more I thought of her attitude the
more I wondered at my own temerity.

A brazen minx I had once thought her, but tonight in her plain white
frock and sober conventional surroundings she seemed to show something
of the quiet poise of a nurse or a nun. She seemed to exemplify the
thought that the ideal woman is both wood-nymph and madonna. By
contrast to the Nietzschian intriguer I had left that morning at
Briar Hills, she was a paragon of all virtues. Nietzsche! The
philosopher of the sty! Freud, his runt!

When, the following morning, I found Jack Ballard in his apartment at
eleven (as usual fastening his cravat) I told him of the unfortunate
end to my ventures, but he only laughed at me.

"My dear Pope," he said, "you are suffering from a severe attack of
paternomania. If you don't mind my saying so, you're making a
prodigious ass of yourself and of Jerry. If I were the boy, I'd pack
you out bag and baggage. Imagine it! Put yourself in his place. Would
_you_ like any meddling in your little affairs of gallantry?" And he
laughed aloud at his joke. I scowled at him, but passed the absurd
remark in dignified silence.

"If it _were_ an affair of gallantry!" I said at last, "I could
forgive him that, and her. But this--it's mere milk and water and he
thinks it's the nectar of the gods. The pity of it!"

"A pity, yes. But who is responsible? Not Jerry, surely. He's what
you've made him," Jack paused expressively. "Does he--?" he began and
paused. I read his meaning.

"No," I said.

"Um! Knowledge will come like a thunderclap to Jerry. Then--look out!"

I agreed with him.

"But Jerry's amatory ventures are none of your business, Pope," he
went on. "Let the boy go the limit. He has got to do it. It won't hurt
him. I told you that Marcia would help him cut his eye-teeth. She's
doing it in approved modern fashion, without instruments or gas.
He'll recover. Let 'em alone. I'll tell you what to do. Just put your
precious dialectics in cold storage awhile--they'll keep; nobody'll
thaw 'em out unless you do--and take a trip to 'Frisco."

"Frisco or not, I meddle no more."

"Frankenstein!" he laughed again. "The monster is getting away from
you."

"If