until finally I threw up my hands and quit.

"I can't stand it any longer, Mrs. Casey. Do you think he's in
jail, or just sulking at a movie somewhere?" I blurted. "Forgive
my butting in, but I wish you'd talk about it. You know you can,
to me. Casey Ryan is a friend and more than a friend: he's a pet
theory of mine-- a fad, if you prefer to call him that.

"I consider him a perfect example of human nature in its
unhampered, unbiased state, going straight through life without
deviating a hair's breadth from the viewpoint of youth. A
fighter and a castle builder; a sort of rough-edged Peter Pan.
Till he gums soft food and hobbles with a stick because the years
have warped his back and his legs, Casey Ryan will keep that
indefinable, bubbling optimism of spiritual youth. So tell me
all about him. I want to know who has licked, so far; luxury or
Casey Ryan."

The Little Woman laughed and picked up the cards, evening their
edges with sensitive fingers that had not been manicured so
beautifully when first I saw them.

"Well-sir," she drawled, making one word of the two and failing
to keep a little twitching from her lips, "I think it's been
about a tie, so far. As a husband--Casey's a darned good
bachelor." Her chuckle robbed that statement of anything
approaching criticism. "Aside from his insisting on cooking
breakfast every morning and feeding me in bed, forcing me to eat
fried eggs and sour-dough hotcakes swimming in butter and
honey--when I crave grapefruit and thin toast and one French lamb