"You're such an innocent," she said. "You've got an idea you know
me--know how I treat Martin. Roddy, dear, a girl's brother doesn't
matter. She isn't dependent on him, nor responsible for him. And if
she's rather sillily fond of him, she's likely to spoil him frightfully.
Don't think the girl you marry will ever treat you like that."

"But look here!" he exclaimed. "You say I don't know you, whom I've
lived with off and on for thirty years--don't know how you'd treat me if
you were married to me. How in thunder am I going to know about the girl
I get engaged to, before it's too late?"

"You won't," she said. "You haven't a chance in the world."

"Hm!" he grunted, obviously struck with this idea. "You're giving the
prospect of marriage new attractions. You're making the thing out--an
adventure."

She nodded rather soberly. "Oh, I'm not afraid for you," she said. "Men
like adventures--you more than most. But women don't. They like to dream
about them, but they want to turn over to the last chapter and see how
it's going to end. It's the girl I'm worried about.... Oh, come along!
We're talking nonsense. I'll go up with you and see that they've given
you pajamas and a tooth-brush."

She had accomplished this purpose, kissed him good night, and under the
hint of his unbuttoned waistcoat and his winding watch, turned to leave
the room, when her eye fell on a heap of damp, warped, pasteboard-bound
note-books, which she remembered having observed in his side pockets
when he first came in. The color on the pasteboard binding had run, and