"Not often nowadays. You see, I know they don't really want me."

"How do you know it?"

"Why--well, why should they? Everybody else calls me--"

"They call you a clam and so you try to live up to your reputation. I
know you, Kent. You think yourself a tough old bivalve, but the most
serious complaint you suffer from is ingrowing sensitiveness. They do
want you. They'd invite you if you gave them half a chance. Oh, I know
you won't, of course; but if I had my way I'd have you dragged by main
strength to every picnic and tea and feminine talk-fest within twenty
miles. You might meet some persevering female who would propose
marriage. YOU never would, but SHE might."

I rose to my feet in disgust.

"We'll go clamming," said I.

He did not move.

"We will--later on," he answered. "We haven't got to the last page
of the catechism yet. I mentioned matrimony because a good, capable,
managing wife would be my first prescription in your case. I have one
or two more up my sleeve. Tell me this: How often do you get away from
Bayport? How often do you get to--well, to Boston, we'll say? How many
times have you been there in the last year?"

"I don't know. A dozen, perhaps."