His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. He was in a position to help her. “Don’t know me, eh? I like that. I could resist the tempter now, I am strong in health,—in mind. Good looks, with a melancholy cast, always drew sentimental females. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee.
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