to be frank, brutally frank, once more?"

"Anything you wish. I'd like to know why you spoke as you did."

"The reason, then, is this. You two would no more mix than oil and
water."

Sidwell's face did not change. "You and Elise seem to jog along fairly
well together," he observed.

Hough scowled as before. "Yes, but there's no possible similarity
between the cases. You and I are no more alike than a dog and a rabbit.
To come down to the direct issue, you're city bred, and Miss Baker has
been reared in the country. She--"

Sidwell held up his hand deprecatingly. "To return to the illustration,
Elise was originally from the country."

"And to repeat once more," exclaimed Hough, "there's again no
similarity. Elise and I have been married eight years. We met at
college, and grew together normally. We were both young and adaptable.
Besides, at the risk of being tedious, I reiterate that you and I are
totally unlike. I'm only partially urban; you are completely so--to your
very finger-tips. I'm half savage, more than half. I like to be out in
the country, among the mountains, upon the lakes. I like to hunt and
fish, and dawdle away time; you care for none of these things. I can
make money because I inherited capital, and it almost makes itself; but
it's not with me a definite ambition. I have no positive object in life,
unless it is to make the little woman happy. You have. Your work absorbs
the best of you. You haven't much left for friendships, even mild ones
like ours. I've been with you for a good many years, old man, and I know
what I'm talking about. You are old, older than your years, and you're
not young even in them. You're selfish--pardon me, but it's
true--abominably selfish. Your character, your point of view, your
habits--are all formed. You'll never change; you wouldn't if you could.
Miss Baker is hardly more than a child. I know her--I've made it a
point to know her since I saw you were interested in her. Everything in
the world rings genuine to her as yet. She hasn't learned to detect the
counterfeit, and when the knowledge does come it will hurt her cruelly.
She'll want to get back to nature as surely as a child with a bruised
finger wants its mother; and you can't go with her. Most of all, Chad,
she's a woman. You don't know what that means--no unmarried man does
know. Even we married ones never grasp the subtleties of woman-nature
completely. I've been studying one for eight years, and at times she