“She’s a wonder, just the same—­especially when you consider the life she’s led.  You know her history—­a morphine fiend with the face of an angel.  She knocked about for years before Stanton fell into her clutches.  He’s dippy about her—­pays for that apartment and gives her a handsome allowance, bought her an automobile, pays her chauffeur, and all the rest of it.  Did you notice that string of pearls she was wearing?  It cost him a cool $10,000 in Paris last summer.”

“Why doesn’t he marry her, if he’s got it as bad as all that?”

Hadley looked at his friend in amazement.

“You’re not in earnest, are you?” he demanded.  “Marry a woman of that kind?”

“Why not?” answered Stafford doggedly.  “If the man thinks enough of her to waste so much time and money upon her let him try and reform her by throwing around her a cloak of respectability.  Why is the woman what she is?  Because pleasure-loving blackguards of Stanton’s type have degraded her and made it impossible for her to hold up her head again among decent people.”

Hadley laughed outright.

“Say, old man,” he exclaimed, “it’s easy to see you are out of sorts this morning.  When did Bob Stafford start in to be a social reformer?  Who ever expected such advice from the man who could always get away with more booze at a sitting than any man I ever knew, and who has been the hero of a hundred affaires de coeur, not all as respectable as that of Stanton and Maude?”

The railroad man took it good-naturedly.

“That’s all right, Fred—­rub it in all you like.  It’s because I’ve been an ass myself that I can see more plainly than any one, perhaps, what cursed folly it is.  We spend our time and substance on some wretched wanton, who never gives us a thought save how much money she can squeeze out of us, and what have we in return?  Nothing.  The years slip quickly by; we find ourselves getting old, and there’s no one round who really cares a jot whether we live or die—­except, possibly our relatives, who look forward to the latter.  Genuine affection is absolutely foreign to our existence.  We have no one to bestow it on; no one to bestow it on us.  To be quite frank, that is another reason why I don’t care to spend too much time in my Riverside home.  I feel lonesome there.  The place is quiet; it lacks the life and bustle of a hotel, and Oku, decent little Jap as he is, hardly makes an ideal companion—­”

Sending a cloud of tobacco smoke up to the ceiling, Hadley gave vent to a low, expressive whistle.

“So—­that’s where the land lays, eh?  You are lonesome.  In other words, you want a wife to share with you the artistic treasures of your Riverside home.  You are tired of being a bachelor—­”

Stafford laughed—­a resounding, wholesome laugh, that fairly shook the room.

“You’ve guessed it, Fred, you’ve guessed it.  You’re a mind-reader.  I confess I’m tired of bumming.  You and Stanton and the rest of the boys are a jolly crowd.  You’ve given me many a good time, but, I tell you, old man, I’m tired of it all.  I want to cut away and settle down.  If the right girl comes along, I’ll marry her—­”