ask you if you happen to have a sister--an unmarried sister, I
mean."

Mrs. Cortlandt laughed appreciatively. "No, I have no sister, but
I thank you for the compliment. I suppose you meant it for one?"

"Yes. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. I'm quite sure now that my notion about you was
right. It will take a woman to make a man of you."

"It used to be my wind that troubled me," said the athlete,
mournfully. "Now it seems to be my heart."

"It doesn't seem to be seriously affected as yet, but it's
remarkable the number of ways in which the heart of man may be
reached. I remember once having breakfast in a queer little
restaurant in the French quarter of New Orleans, famous for its
cooking and for the well-known people who had eaten there. There
was a sort of register which the guests were asked to sign, and in
looking it over I read the inscription of one particularly
enthusiastic diner. It ran, 'Oh, Madame Begue, your liver has
touched my heart,' and the story is that the writer made desperate
love to the proprietor's wife."

"Oh, come, that's rather hard on me. I have some emotions besides
a hearty appreciation of food."

"No doubt. I only mentioned that as one of the ways, and,
seriously, I am convinced that, however your awakening may come,