"Is--it?" scoffed Barton.

"It is!" asserted the Older Man. "The woman, I tell you, who fathoms
heroism in the fellow that every one else thought was a knave--she's
got something to brag about! The fellow who's shrewd enough to spy
unutterable lovableness in the woman that no man yet has ever even
remotely suspected of being lovable at all--God! It's like being Adam
with the whole world virgin!"

"Oh, that may be all right in theory," acknowledged the Younger Man,
with some reluctance. "But--"

"Now, speaking of Miss Edgarton," resumed the Older Man monotonously.

"Oh, hang Miss Edgarton!" snapped the Younger Man. "I wouldn't be seen
talking to her! She hasn't any looks! She hasn't any style! She hasn't
any--anything! Of all the hopelessly plain girls! Of all the--!"

"Now see here, my young friend," begged the Older Man blandly. "The
fellow who goes about the world judging women by the sparkle of their
eyes or the pink of their cheeks or the sheen of their hair--runs a
mighty big risk of being rated as just one of two things, a sensualist
or a fool."

"Are you trying to insult me?" demanded the Younger Man furiously.

Freakishly the Older Man twisted his thin-lipped mouth and one
glowering eyebrow into a surprisingly sudden and irresistible smile.