Of course, having learned wisdom, I said nothing to Miss Gore, but passed a very profitable morning in her society after which she invited me to stay for lunch.  I can assure you that after Jerry’s glum looks, Miss Gore’s amiable conversation and warm hospitality were balm to my wounded spirit.  I had no desire to discuss her intangible relative or she, I presume, the unfortunate Jerry, both of us having washed our hands of the entire affair.  She was a prudent person, Miss Gore, and though full of the milk of human kindness, not disposed to waste it where it would do no good.  I left with the promise to call upon her another morning and read to her a paper I had written for a philosophical magazine upon the “The Identical Character of Thought and Being.”

Jack Ballard arrived upon the morning of the appointed day in his own machine, and since Jerry and his other guests were not expected until evening, we had a long afternoon of it together.  We took a tramp across the country, and while Jack listened with great interest to my disclosures, I poured out my heart to him, omitting nothing, not even, to salve my self-esteem, my unfortunate experience in eavesdropping.  I don’t really know why I should have expected his sympathy, but he only laughed, laughed so much and so long that the tears ran down his cheeks and he had to sit down.

“Oh, Pope—­a chipmunk!  He might at least have allowed you the dignity of a bear or a mountain lion!”

“There are no mountain lions in these parts,” I said with some dignity.

“Or a duck-billed platypus.  Oh, I say, Pope, it’s too rich.  I can’t help picturing it.  Did they coo?  Oh, Lord!”

“It was nauseating!” I retorted in accents so genuine that he laughed again.

“It’s no laughing matter, I tell you, Jack,” I said.  “The boy is completely bewitched.  He thinks he adores her.  He doesn’t.  I know.”

And bit by bit, while his expression grew interested, I told him all that I had heard.

“It’s animal, purely animal,” I concluded.  “And he doesn’t know it.”

“By George!  He’s awakening, you think?”

“I’m sure of it.  She’s leading him on, for the mere sport of the thing.  It has been going on for four months now, almost every day.  He’s pretty desperate.  She won’t marry him.  She doesn’t love him.  She loves nobody—­but herself.”

“What will be the end of the matter?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“She’ll throw him over when she debases him.”

“Debase—!”

“Yes,” I said wildly.  “I tell you he thinks her an angel, Can’t you see?  A man doesn’t learn that sort of thing—­her sort of thing—­from the woman he loves.  It’s like hearing impurity from the lips of one’s God!  And you ask me if she’s debasing him!  Why, Jack, he’s all ideals still.  The world has taught him something, but he still holds fast to his childish faith in everyone.”

“Bless him!  He does.”  And then, “What can I do, Pope?”