Mr. Poopendyke began to develop a streak¹ of romantic invention—in fact, tomfoolery—A day or two after my experience with Count Tarnowsy in the Rempf Hotel. He is the last person in the world of whom I—or any one else—would suspect silliness of a radical² nature.  
We were finding it rather difficult to get down to actual, serious work on the book. The plot and the synopsis³, of course, were quite completely outlined; with ordinary intensity⁴ of purpose on my part the tale might have galloped⁵ through the introductory chapters with some clarity and decisiveness. But for some reason I lacked the power of concentration, or perhaps more properly speaking the power of initiative. I laid it to the hub-bub created by the final effort of the workmen to finish the job of repairing my castle before cold weather set in.
 
"That isn't it, Mr. Smart," said my secretary darkly. We were in the study and my pad of paper was lying idly on my knees. For half an hour I had been trying to think of a handy sentence with which to open the story; the kind of sentence that catches the unwary reader's attention at a glance and makes for interest.
 
"What is it, then?" I demanded, at once resenting an opinion.
 
He smiled mysteriously. "You were not thinking of the workmen just now, were you?"
 
"Certainly," said I, coldly. "What's that got to do with it?"
 
"Nothing, I suppose," said he resignedly.
 
I hesitated. "Of course it is the work that upsets me. What are you driving at?"
 
He stared for a long time at the portrait of Ludwig the Red. "Isn't it odd that the Countess, an American, should be descended⁹ from the old Rothhoefens? What a small world it is, after all!"
 
I became wary⁷. "Nothing odd about it to me. We've all got to descend⁸ from somebody."
 
"I dare say. Still it is odd that she should be hiding in the castle of her ances—"
 
"Not at all, not at all. It just happens to be a handy place. Perfectly¹⁰ natural."
 
We lapsed¹¹ into a prolonged spell of silence. I found myself watching him rather combatively¹², as who would anticipate the move of an adversary¹³.
 
"Perfect rot," said I, at last, without rhyme or reason.
 
He grinned. "Nevertheless, it's the general opinion that you are," said he.
 
I sat up very straight. "What's that?"
 
"You're in love," said he succinctly¹⁴. It was like a bomb, and a bomb is the very last thing in succinctness¹⁵. It comes to the point without palaver¹⁶ or conjecture¹⁷, and it reduces havoc¹⁸ to a single synonymous syllable¹⁹.
 
"You're crazy!" I gasped²⁰.
 
"And the workmen haven't anything at all to do with it," he pronounced emphatically. It was a direct charge. I distinctly felt called upon to refute it. But while I was striving to collect my thoughts he went on, somewhat arbitrarily, I thought: "You don't think we're all blind, do you, Mr. Smart?" "We?" I murmured, a curious dampness assailing²¹ me.
 
"That is to say, Britton, the Schmicks and myself."
 
"The Schmicks?" It was high time that I should laugh. "Ha! ha! The Schmicks! Good Lord, man,—the Schmicks." It sounded inane²³ even to me, but, on my soul, it was all I could think of to say.
 
"The Schmicks are tickled²⁴ to death over it," said he. "And so is Britton."
 
Collecting all the sarcasm²⁵ that I could command at the instant, I inquired: "And you, Mr. Poopendyke,—are you not ticklish²⁶?"
 
"Very," said he.
 
"Well, I'm not!" said I, savagely²⁷. "What does all this nonsense mean. Don't be an ass²², Fred."
 
"Perhaps you don't know it, Mr. Smart, but you are in love," said he so convincingly that I was conscious of an abrupt²⁸ sinking of the heart. Good heavens! Was he right? Was there anything in this silly twaddle? "You are quite mad about her."
 
"The deuce you say!" I exclaimed, rather blankly.
 
"Oh, I've seen it coming. For that matter, so has she. It's as plain as the nose—"
 
I leaped to my feet, startled. "She? You don't—Has she said anything that leads you to believe—Oh, the deuce! What rot!"
 
"No use getting angry over it," he said consolingly. "Falling in love is the sort of thing a fellow can't help, you know. It happens without his assistance. It is so easy. Now I was once in love with a girl for two years without really knowing it."
 
"And how did you find it out?" I asked, weakly.
 
"I didn't find it out until she married another chap. Then I knew I'd been in love with her all the time. But that's neither here nor there. You are heels over head in love with the Countess Tarnowsy and—"
 
"Shut up, Fred! You're going daffy from reading my books, or absorbing my manuscripts, or—"
 
"Heaven is my witness, I don't read your books and I merely correct your manuscripts. God knows there is no romance in that! You are in love. Now what are you going to do about it?"
 
"Do about it?" I demanded.
 
"You can't go on in this way, you know," he said relentlessly²⁹. "She won't—"
 
"Why, you blithering idiot," I roared, "do you know what you are saying? I'm not in love with anybody. My heart is—is—But never mind! Now, listen to me, Fred. This nonsense has got to cease. I won't have it. Why, she's already got a husband. She's had all she can stand in the way of husb—"
 
"Rubbish! She can stand a husband or two more, if you are going to look at it in a literal way. Besides, she hasn't a husband. She's chucked him. Good riddance, too. Now, do you imagine for a single instant that a beautiful, adorable young woman of twenty-three is going to spend the rest of her life without a man? Not much! She's free to marry again and she will."
 
"Admitting that to be true, why should she marry me?"
 
"I didn't say she was in love with you. I said you were in love with her."
 
"Oh," I said, and my face fell "I see."
 
He seemed to be considering something. After a few seconds, he nodded his head decisively. "Yes, I am sure of it. If the right man gets her, she'll make the finest, sweetest wife in the world. She's never had a chance to show what's really in her. She would be adorable, wouldn't she?"
 
The sudden question caught me unawares.
 
"She would!" I said, with conviction.
 
"Well," said he, slowly and deliberately³⁰, "why don't you set about it, then?"
 
He was so ridiculous that I thought for the fun of it, I'd humour him.
 
"Assuming that you are right in regard to my feelings toward her, Fred, what leads you to believe that I would stand a chance of winning her?" It was a silly question, but I declare I hung on his answer with a tenseness that surprised me.
 
"Why not? You are good looking, a gentleman, a celebrity³¹, and a man. Bless my soul, she could do worse."
 
"But you forget that I am—let me see—thirty-five and she is but twenty-three."
 
"To offset³² that, she has been married and unhappy. That brings her about up to your level, I should say. She's a mother, and that makes you seem a good bit younger. Moreover, she isn't a sod widow. She's a grass widow, and she's got a living example to use as a contrast. Regulation widows sometimes forget the past because it is dim and dead; but, by George, sir, the divorced wife doesn't forget the hard time she's had. She's mighty³³ careful when she goes about it the second time. The other kind has lost her sense of comparison, her standard, so to speak. Her husband may have been a rotter and all that sort of thing, but he's dead and buried and she can't see anything but the good that was in him for the simple reason that it's on his tombstone. But when they're still alive and as bad as ever,—well, don't you see it's different?"
 
"It occurs to me she'd be more likely to see the evil in all men and steer³⁴ clear of them."
 
"That isn't feminine nature. All women want to be loved. They want to be married. They want to make some man happy."
 
"I suppose all this is philosophy," I mused³⁵, somewhat pleased and mollified. "But we'll look at it from another point of view. The former Miss Titus set out for a title. She got it. Do you imagine she'll marry a man who has no position—By Jove! That reminds me of something. You are altogether wrong in your reasoning, Fred. With her own lips she declared to me one day that she'd never marry again. There you are!"
 
He rolled his eyes heavenward.
 
"They take delight in self-pity," said he. "You can't believe 'em under oath when they're in that mood."
 
"Well, granting that she will marry again," said I, rather insistently³⁶, "it doesn't follow that her parents will consent to a marriage with any one less than a duke the next time."
 
"They've had their lesson."
 
"And she is probably a mercenary creature, after all. She's had a taste of poverty, after a fashion. I imagine—"
 
"If I know anything about women, the Countess Tarnowsy wants love more than anything else in the world, my friend. She was made to be loved and she knows it. And she hasn't had any of it, except from men who didn't happen to know how to combine love and respect. I'll give you my candid³⁷ opinion, Mr. John Bellamy Smart. She's in a receptive mood. Strike while the iron is hot. You'll win or my name isn't—"
 
"Fred Poopendyke, you haven't a grain of sense," I broke in sharply. "Do you suppose, just to oblige you, I'll get myself mixed up in this wretched squabble? Why, she's not really clear of the fellow yet. She's got a good many months to wait before the matter of the child and the final decree—"
 
"Isn't she worth waiting a year for—or ten years? Besides, the whole squabble will come to an end the minute old man Titus puts up the back million. And the minute the Countess goes to him and says she's willing for him to pay it, you take my word for it, he'll settle like a flash. It rests with her."
 
"I don't quite get your meaning."
 
"She isn't going to let a stingy little million stand between her and happiness."
 
"Confound you, do you mean to say she'd ask her father to pay over that million in order to be free to marry—" I did not condescend³⁹ to finish the sentence.
 
"Why not?" he demanded after a moment. "He owes it, doesn't he?"
 
I gasped. "But you wouldn't have him pay over a million to that damned brute⁴⁰ of a Count!"
 
He grinned. "You've changed your song, my friend. A few weeks ago you were saying he ought to pay it, that it would serve him right, and—"
 
"Did I say that?"
 
"You did. You even said it to the Countess."
 
"But not with the view to making it possible for her to hurry off and marry again. Please understand that, Fred."
 
"He ought to pay what he owes. He gave a million to get one husband for her. He ought to give a million to be rid of him, so that she could marry the next one without putting him to any expense whatsoever⁴¹. It's only fair to her, I say. And now I'll tell you something else: the Countess, who has stood out stubbornly against the payment of this money, is now halfway⁴² inclined to advise the old gentleman to settle with Tarnowsy."
 
"She is?" I cried in astonishment⁴³. "How do you know?"
 
"I told her I thought it was the cheapest and quickest way out of it, and she said: 'I wonder!'"
 
"Have you been discussing her most sacred affairs with her, you blithering—"
 
"No, sir," said he, with dignity. "She has been discussing them with me."
 
I have no recollection of what I said as I stalked out of the room. He called out after me, somewhat pleadingly, I thought:
 
"Ask Britton what he has to say about it."
 
Things had come to a pretty pass! Couldn't a gentleman be polite and agreeable to a young and charming lady whom circumstances had thrown in his way without having his motives⁴⁴ misconstrued by a lot of snooping, idiotic⁴⁵ menials whose only zest⁴⁶ in life sprung from a temperamental tendency to belittle⁴⁷ the big things and enlarge upon the small ones? What rot! What utter rot! Ask Britton! The more I thought of Poopendyke's injunction the more furious I grew. What insufferable insolence⁴⁸! Ask Britton! The idea! Ask my valet! Ask him what? Ask him politely if he could oblige me by telling me whether I was in love? I suppose that is what Poopendyke meant.
 
It was the silliest idea in the world. In the first place I was not in love, and in the second place whose business was it but mine if I were? Certainly not Poopendyke's, certainly not Britton's, certainly not the Schmicks'! Absolute lack of any sense of proportion, that's what ailed⁴⁹ the whole bally of them. What looked like love to them—benighted dolts⁵⁰!—was no more than a rather resolute⁵¹ effort on my part to be kind to and patient with a person who had invaded my home and set everybody—including myself—by the ears.
 
But, even so, what right had my secretary to constitute himself adviser⁵² and mentor⁵³ to the charming invader⁵⁴? What right had he to suggest what she should do, or what her father should do, or what anybody should do? He was getting to be disgustingly officious. What he needed was a smart jacking up, a little plain talk from me. Give a privileged and admittedly faithful secretary an inch and he'll have you up to your ears in trouble before you know what has happened. By the same token, what right had she to engage herself in confidential⁵⁵ chats with—But just then I caught sight of Britton coming upstairs with my neatly⁵⁶ polished tan shoes in one hand and a pair of number 3-1/2A tan pumps in the other. Not expecting to meet me in the hall, he had neglected to remove his cap when he came in from the courtyard. In some confusion, he tried to take it off, first with one hand, then with the other, sustaining what one might designate as absent treatment kicks on either jaw⁵⁷ from two distinct sexes in the shape of shoes. He managed to get all four of them into one hand, however, and then grabbed off his cap.
 
"Anythink more, sir?" he asked, purely⁵⁸ from habit. I was regarding the shoes with interest. Never have I known anything so ludicrous as the contrast between my stupendous number tens and the dainty pumps that seemed almost babyish beside them.
 
Then I did the very thing I had excoriated⁵⁹ Poopendyke for even suggesting. I asked Britton!
 
"Britton, what's all this gossip I hear going the rounds of the castle behind my back?"
 
Confound him, he looked pleased! "It's quite true, sir, quite true."
 
"Quite true!" I roared. "What's quite true, sir?"
 
"Isn't it, sir?" he asked, dismayed.
 
"Isn't what?"
 
"I mean to say, sir, isn't it true?"
 
"My God!" I cried, throwing up my hands in hopeless despair. "You—you—wait! I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I want the truth, Britton. Who put it into that confounded head of yours that I am—er—in love with the Countess? Speak! Who did it?"
 
He lowered his voice, presumably because I had dropped mine to a very loud whisper. I also had glanced over both shoulders.
 
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I must be honest, sir. It was you as first put it into my 'ead, sir."
 
"I?" My face went the colour of a cardinal's cap.
 
"............