as he calmly watched his man.

He had managed it well, so far, and he was wise enough not to overdo it.
An interval of silence was what the situation required.

"I wish I _had_ a wife," muttered Gatewood after a long pause.

"Oh, haven't you said that every day for five years? Wife! Look at the
willing assortment of dreams playing Sally Waters around town. Isn't
this borough a bower of beauty--a flowery thicket where the prettiest
kind in all the world grow under glass or outdoors? And what do you do?
You used to pretend to prowl about inspecting the yearly crop of posies,
growling, cynical, dissatisfied; but you've even given that up. Now you
only point your nose skyward and squall for a mate, and yowl mournfully
that you never have seen your ideal. _I_ know _you_."

"I never have seen my ideal," retorted Gatewood sulkily, "but I know she
exists--somewhere between heaven and Hoboken."

"You're sure, are you?"

"Oh, _I'm_ sure. And, rich or poor, good or bad, she was fashioned for
me alone. That's a theory of mine; _you_ needn't accept it; in fact,
it's none of your business, Tommy."

"All the same," insisted Kerns, "did you ever consider that if your
ideal does exist somewhere, it is morally up to you to find her?"

"Haven't I inspected every debutante for ten years? You don't expect me
to advertise for an ideal, do you--object, matrimony?"

Kerns regarded him intently. "Now, I'm going to make a vivid suggestion,
Jack. In fact, that's why I subjected myself to the ordeal of
breakfasting with you. It's none of my business, as you so kindly put
it, but--_shall_ I suggest something?"

"Go ahead," replied Gatewood, tranquilly lighting a cigarette. "I know
what you'll say."

"No, you don't. Firstly, you are having such a good time in this world
that you don't really enjoy yourself--isn't that so?"

"I--well I--well, let it go at that."

"Secondly, with all your crimes and felonies, you have one decent trait
left: you really would like to fall in love. And I suspect you'd even
marry."

"There are grounds," said Gatewood guardedly, "for your suspicions. _Et
apres?_"

"Good. Then there's a way! I know--"

"Oh, don't tell me you 'know a girl,' or anything like that!" began
Gatewood sullenly. "I've heard that before, and I won't meet her."

"I don't want you to; I don't know anybody. All I desire to say is this:
I do know a way. The other day I noticed a sign on Fifth Avenue:

KEEN