“Anything you wish.  I’d like to know why you spoke as you did.”

“The reason, then, is this.  You two would no more mix than oil and water.”

Sidwell’s face did not change.  “You and Elise seem to jog along fairly well together,” he observed.

Hough scowled as before.  “Yes, but there’s no possible similarity between the cases.  You and I are no more alike than a dog and a rabbit.  To come down to the direct issue, you’re city bred, and Miss Baker has been reared in the country.  She—­”

Sidwell held up his hand deprecatingly.  “To return to the illustration, Elise was originally from the country.”

“And to repeat once more,” exclaimed Hough, “there’s again no similarity.  Elise and I have been married eight years.  We met at college, and grew together normally.  We were both young and adaptable.  Besides, at the risk of being tedious, I reiterate that you and I are totally unlike.  I’m only partially urban; you are completely so—­to your very finger-tips.  I’m half savage, more than half.  I like to be out in the country, among the mountains, upon the lakes.  I like to hunt and fish, and dawdle away time; you care for none of these things.  I can make money because I inherited capital, and it almost makes itself; but it’s not with me a definite ambition.  I have no positive object in life, unless it is to make the little woman happy.  You have.  Your work absorbs the best of you.  You haven’t much left for friendships, even mild ones like ours.  I’ve been with you for a good many years, old man, and I know what I’m talking about.  You are old, older than your years, and you’re not young even in them.  You’re selfish—­pardon me, but it’s true—­abominably selfish.  Your character, your point of view, your habits—­are all formed.  You’ll never change; you wouldn’t if you could.  Miss Baker is hardly more than a child.  I know her—­I’ve made it a point to know her since I saw you were interested in her.  Everything in the world rings genuine to her as yet.  She hasn’t learned to detect the counterfeit, and when the knowledge does come it will hurt her cruelly.  She’ll want to get back to nature as surely as a child with a bruised finger wants its mother; and you can’t go with her.  Most of all, Chad, she’s a woman.  You don’t know what that means—­no unmarried man does know.  Even we married ones never grasp the subtleties of woman-nature completely.  I’ve been studying one for eight years, and at times she escapes me.  But one thing I have learned; they demand that they shall be first in the life of the man they love.  Florence Baker will demand this, and after the first novelty has worn off you won’t satisfy her.  I repeat once more, you’re too selfish for that.  As sure as anything can be, Chad Sidwell, if you marry that girl it will end in disaster—­in divorce, or something worse.”

The voice ceased, and the place was of a sudden very quiet.  Sidwell tapped on his thin drinking-glass with his finger-nail.  His companion had never seen him nervous before.  At last he looked up unshiftingly.  “You’ve given me a pretty vivid portrait of myself, of what I’m good for, and what not,” he said.  “Would you like me to return the compliment?”