whole season can't hold your interest much beyond the stage where you
once begin to call her by her first name!"

Irritably, as he spoke, he reached out for a bright-covered magazine
from the great pile of books and papers that sprawled on the wicker
table close at his elbow. "Where in blazes do the story-book writers
find their girls?" he demanded. Noisily with his knuckles he began to
knock through page after page of the magazine's big-typed
advertisements concerning the year's most popular story-book heroines.
"Why--here are no end of story-book girls," he complained, "that could
keep a fellow guessing till his hair was nine shades of white! Look at
the corking things they say! But what earthly good are any of 'em to
you? They're not real! Why, there was a little girl in a magazine
story last month--! Why, I could have died for her! But confound it, I
say, what's the use? They're none of 'em real! Nothing but moonshine!
Nothing in the world, I tell you, but just plain made-up moonshine!
Absolutely improbable!"

Slowly the Older Man drew in his long, rambling legs and crossed one
knee adroitly over the other.

"Improbable--your grandmother!" said the Older Man. "If there's--one
person on the face of this earth who makes me sick it's the ninny who
calls a thing 'improbable' because it happens to be outside his own
special, puny experience of life."

Tempestuously the Younger Man slammed down his magazine to the floor.

"Great Heavens, man!" he demanded. "Where in thunder would a fellow
like me start out to find a story-book girl? A real girl, I mean!"