“Something must be done, Cal,” he said, on one occasion, “but you see, here’s the trouble—­she’s a woman and I’m a man.”

“That’s a famous old trouble,” I remarked.

“And she’s got to live, though Wes’ Keyts says he isn’t so sure of that—­he says I’m lucky enough to have an earthquake made up especially for this case—­and if she lives, she must have ways and means.  And then I have my own troubles.  Say, I never knew I was so careless about my language until she came along.  She says only an iron will can correct it.  Did you ever notice how she says ‘i—­ron’ the way people say it when they’re reading poetry out loud?  I’ll bet, if he had her help, the author of ‘One Hundred Common Errors’ could take an Argus and run his list up to a hundred and fifty in no time.  She keeps finding common errors there that I’ll bet this fellow never heard of.  You mustn’t say ‘by the sweat of the brow,’ but ’by the perspiration’—­perspiration is refined and sweat is coarse—­and to-day I learned for the first time that it’s wrong to say ’Mrs. Henry Peterby of Plum Creek, nee Jennie McCormick, spent Sunday with her parents of this city.’  It looks right on the face of it, but it seems you mustn’t say ‘nee’ for the first name—­only the last; though it means in French that that was her name before she was married.  I tell you, that woman is a stickler.  But what can I do?”

“Well, what can you do?  Far be it from me to suggest that something must be done.”

“Do you know, Cal, sometimes I’ve thought I’d adopt a tone with her?”

“Better be careful,” I cautioned.  Mrs. Potts was not a person that one should adopt a tone with except after long and prayerful deliberation.

“Oh, I’ve considered it long enough—­in fact I’ve considered a lot of things.  That woman has bothered me in more ways than one, I tell you frankly.  She’s such a fine woman, splendid-looking, capable, an intellectual giant—­one, I may say, who makes no common errors—­and yet—­”

“Ah! and yet—?” There was then in Solon’s eyes that curious reserve I had before noted—­a reserve that hinted of some desperate but still secret design.

“Well, there you are.”

“Where?”

“Well—­she seems to me to be a born leader of men.”

“I see, and you?”

“Oh, nothing—­only I’m a man.  But something has got to be done.  We must use common sense in these matters.”

It was early evening a week later when I again saw Solon; one of those still, serene evenings of later summer when the light would yet permit an hour’s play at the game.  I heard a step, but it was not she I longed, half-expected, and wholly dreaded to see.  Instead came Solon, and by his restored confidence of bearing I knew at a glance that something had been done or—­since he seemed to be hurried—­that he was about to do it.

“It’s all over, Cal—­it’s fixed!”

“Good—­how did you fix it?”