With his first sign of genuine amusement the Younger Man tipped back his head and laughed right up into the green-lined roof of the piazza.  “Now just whom would you specially recommend for me?” he demanded mirthfully.  “Among all the feminine galaxy of bores and frumps that seem to be congregated at this particular hotel—­just whom would you specially recommend for me?  The stoop-shouldered, school-marmy Botany dame with her incessant garden gloves?  Or?—­Or—?” His whole face brightened suddenly with a rather extraordinary amount of humorous malice:  “Or how about that duddy-looking little Edgarton girl that I saw you talking with this morning?” he asked delightedly.  “Heaven knows she’s colorless enough to suit even you—­with her winter-before-spring-before-summer-before-last clothes and her voice so meek you’d have to hold her in your lap to hear it.  And her—­”

“That ‘duddy-looking’ little Miss Edgarton—­meek?” mused the Older Man in sincere astonishment.  “Meek?  Why, man alive, she was born in a snow-shack on the Yukon River!  She was at Pekin in the Boxer Rebellion!  She’s roped steers in Oklahoma!  She’s matched her embroidery silks to all the sunrise tints on the Himalayas!  Just why in creation should she seem meek—­do you suppose—­to a—­to a—­twenty-five-dollar-a-week clerk like yourself?”

“‘A twenty-five-dollar-a-week clerk like myself?’” the Younger Man fairly gasped.  “Why—­why—­I’m the junior partner of the firm of Barton & Barton, stock-brokers!  Why, we’re the biggest—­”

“Is that so?” quizzed the Older Man with feigned surprise.  “Well—­well—­well!  I beg your pardon.  But now doesn’t it all go to prove just exactly what I said in the beginning—­that it doesn’t behoove a single one of us to judge too hastily by appearances?”

As if fairly overwhelmed with embarrassment he sat staring silently off into space for several seconds.  Then—­“Speaking of this Miss Edgarton,” he resumed genially, “have you ever exactly sought her out—­as it were—­and actually tried to get acquainted with her?”

“No,” said Barton shortly.  “Why, the girl must be thirty years old!”

“S—­o?” mused the Older Man.  “Just about your age?”

“I’m thirty-two,” growled the Younger Man.

“I’m sixty-two, thank God!” acknowledged the Older Man.  “And your gorgeous Miss Von Eaton—­who bores you so—­all of a sudden—­is about—?”

“Twenty,” prompted the Younger Man.

“Poor—­senile—­babe,” ruminated the Older Man soberly.

“Eh?” gasped the Younger Man, edging forward in his chair.  “Eh?  ‘Senile’?  Twenty?”

“Sure!” grinned the Older Man.  “Twenty is nothing but the ’sere and yellow leaf’ of infantile caprice!  But thirty is the jocund youth of character!  On land or sea the Lord Almighty never made anything as radiantly, divinely young as—­thirty!  Oh, but thirty’s the darling age in a woman!” he added with sudden exultant positiveness.  “Thirty’s the birth of individuality!  Thirty’s the—­”