“It doesn’t seem to be seriously affected as yet, but it’s remarkable the number of ways in which the heart of man may be reached.  I remember once having breakfast in a queer little restaurant in the French quarter of New Orleans, famous for its cooking and for the well-known people who had eaten there.  There was a sort of register which the guests were asked to sign, and in looking it over I read the inscription of one particularly enthusiastic diner.  It ran, ’Oh, Madame Begue, your liver has touched my heart,’ and the story is that the writer made desperate love to the proprietor’s wife.”

“Oh, come, that’s rather hard on me.  I have some emotions besides a hearty appreciation of food.”

“No doubt.  I only mentioned that as one of the ways, and, seriously, I am convinced that, however your awakening may come, you will be the better for it.”

“I do hope the cook will prove to be unmarried,” he mused.  “Imagine having to do away with a husband who can handle a cleaver.”

“Oh, I don’t mean you should necessarily marry the woman.  It would be quite as good for you if she refused even to look at you.  However, let us hope that you meet some nice American girl—­”

“Why not a senorita?  You have inspired me with Spanish romance.”

But Mrs. Cortlandt shook her head.  “Wait until you have seen them.”

“Already I imagine myself under some moonlit balcony teasing chords out of a guitar.  I have rather a good singing voice, you know.”

It is not done that way nowadays.  Panama is Americanized.  You will need a pianola and an automobile.”

“And all the romance is gone?”

“Oh, there is romance everywhere; there is quite as much in Pittsburg as in Andalusia.  But to speak of more practical things”—­ Mrs. Cortlandt hesitated slightly—­“I heard you tell the purser the other day about your financial troubles, and it occurred to me that Mr. Cortlandt might assist you.”

“Thanks, awfully,” Kirk hastened to say, feeling himself flush uncomfortably.  “But I sha’n’t need anything.  The old gentleman will wire me whatever I ask for.  Does Mr. Cortlandt know how I am fixed?”

“No.”

“Please don’t tell him.  I—­I’m a little bit ashamed of myself.  You’re not going?”

“Yes.  It is getting late, and my maid is looking for me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  It’s lonesome around here without—­somebody to talk to.”  He took her hand and shook it as if she were a man.  “You’ve been mighty good to me and—­I wish you had a sister.  That’s all.”

She left him the memory of a very bright and very girlish smile, and he found himself thinking that she could not be so much older than he, after all.

Mr. Cortlandt was awaiting his wife and rose courteously as she entered their suite.

“Did you send Annette for me?” she inquired.

“Yes.  I thought you had forgotten the hour.  We rise at six.”