But the process was impossible. That fine instrument of precision, his
mind, that had, for many years, done without complaint the work he gave
it to do, had simply gone on a strike. Instead of ratiocinating
properly, it presented pictures. Mainly four: a girl, flaming with
indignation, holding a street-car conductor pinned by the wrists; a girl
in absurd bedroom slippers, her skirt twisted around her knees, her hair
a chaos, stretching herself awake like a big cat; a girl with wonderful,
blue, tear-brimming eyes, from whose glory he had had to turn away. Last
of all, the girl who had said with that adorable stammer, "So are
y-you," and smiled a smile that had summed up everything that was
desirable in the world.

It was late that night when his mind, in a dazed sort of way, came back
on the job. And the first thing it pointed out to him was that Frederica
had undoubtedly been right in telling him that, though they had lived
together off and on for thirty years, they didn't know each other. The
pictures his memory held of his sister, covered no such emotional range
as these four. Did Martin's? It seemed absurd, yet there was a strong
intrinsic probability of it.

Anyway, it was a remark Frederica had made last night that gave him
something to hold on by. Marriage, she had said, was an adventure, the
essential adventurousness of which no amount of cautious thought taken
in advance could modify. There was no doubt in his mind that marriage
with that girl would be a more wonderful adventure than any one had ever
had in the world.

All right then, perhaps his mind had been right in refusing to take up
the case. The one tremendous question,--would the adventure look