the planting. And, sometimes, almost you are to me the ultramodern man, the last word of the two-legged, male human that finds Trojan adventures in sieges of statistics, and, armed with test tubes and hypodermics, engages in gladiatorial contests with weird microorganisms. Almost, at times, it seems you should wear glasses and be bald-headed; almost, it seems� .”

“That I have no right of vigor to possess an armful of girl,” he completed for her, drawing her still closer. “That I am a silly scientific brute who doesn’t merit his ‘vain little breath of sweet rose-colored dust.’ Well, listen, I have a plan. In a few days� .”

But his plan died in birth, for, at their backs, came a discreet cough of warning, and, both heads turning as one they