"Not exactly thoughts concerning _you_, even so, are they?" quizzed
the Doctor.

Stanton began to grin again. "Well, thoughts concerning the weather,
then--if that suits you any better."

Twice the Doctor swallowed audibly. Then, "But it's hardly fair--is
it--to weigh a boxful of even the prettiest lies against five of even
the slimmest real, true letters?" he asked drily.

"But they're not lies!" snapped Stanton. "Surely you don't call
anything a lie unless not only the fact is false, but the fancy, also,
is maliciously distorted! Now take this case right before us. Suppose
there isn't any 'little brother' at all; suppose there isn't any
'Painted Desert', suppose there isn't any 'black sheep up on a
grandfather's farm', suppose there isn't _anything_; suppose, I say,
that every single, individual fact stated is _false_--what earthly
difference does it make so long as the _fancy_ still remains the
truest, realest, dearest, funniest thing that ever happened to a
fellow in his life?"

"Oh, ho!" said the Doctor. "So that's the trouble is it! It isn't just
rheumatism that's keeping you thin and worried looking, eh? It's only
that you find yourself suddenly in the embarrassing predicament of
being engaged to one girl and--in love with another?"

"N--o!" cried Stanton frantically. "N--O! That's the mischief of
it--the very mischief! I don't even know that the Serial-Letter Co.
_is_ a girl. Why it might be an old lady, rather whimsically inclined.
Even the oldest lady, I presume, might very reasonably perfume her