“Why, Jerry, you couldn’t be impolite to a woman any more than you could fly.  You’d do just whatever she said.”

“I wouldn’t.  They’re idiots, the lot of ’em.  What’s the use?  What do girls want to get married for, anyway?”

She glanced up at him quickly.  Then at the glimpse she had of Jerry’s sober profile her wide gaze dulled and then sought the earth before her.  It was true then what she believed of him.  A child—­this gorgeous creature that shaved its face!

“I suppose it’s because they—­they haven’t anything else to do,” she stammered.

“There’s plenty for every woman to do without marrying, or there ought to be.  They can work like men, or clean their houses, or raise their children.”

At this point the girl was seized with a sudden fit of coughing and her face was purple.

“What’s the matter?”

“I—­I just swallowed the wrong way,” she gasped.

“Here, I’ll pat you on the back.  All right now?”

“Y-yes, better, thanks.”  But she held her fingers before her eyes and still struggled for breath.  In a moment when she raised her head, there were traces of a smile, but she was quite composed.

“Then you—­you don’t believe in marriage as an institution?” she asked with some hesitation.

“No.  I can’t see the use of it.  We’re all animals like the wild folk, the beasts of the field, the birds.  They get along all right.”

“Birds mate, don’t they?” she put in.

“Oh, yes, but they don’t need a minister to mate ’em.  They just hop about together a bit and then start their nest.  It’s simple as rolling off a log.”

“That’s what humans do, as you say; they just hop about a bit and then get married.”

“But marriage doesn’t make ’em any happier, does it?  I’m sure I wouldn’t want to be tied down to one woman as long as I lived.  Suppose I changed my mind or suppose she did.”

“You wouldn’t change your mind if you loved a woman.”

“Love!” he sneered.  “There you go.  I thought you’d say that.”

“You don’t believe in love, then?” she asked.

“It seems to me that there’s a lot of sentimental rubbish written about it.  What’s the use of talking so much about a thing that’s as plain as the nose on your face?  Love means loyalty, friendship, honor and everything that’s fine, but when the classic poets begin writing reams of rot about it, it’s time—­it’s time somebody was sensible.”

“Poor Jerry,” she laughed.  “I’m so sorry for you.”

“Why?”

“Because when you fall, you’re going to fall so very hard.”

“How—­fall?”

“Fall in love.  You will, some day.  Everybody does.  It’s as sure as death or taxes.”

“Everybody! You haven’t, have you?”

“Oh, dear, no.  Not yet.  But I suppose I shall some day.”

Jerry regarded her in silence for a moment.