"He must be at work on a ten-volume novel," said the Doctor. "Let's
go."
And with that they departed. Night came on, and with it darkness,
but Harley never moved. The fact was he was going through an
examination of the human race to find a man good enough for
Marguerite Andrews, and it speaks volumes for the interest she had
suddenly inspired in his breast that it took him so long to find what
he wanted.
Along about nine o'clock he gave a deep sigh and returned to earth.
"I guess I've got him," he said, wearily, rubbing his forehead, which
began to ache a trifle. "I'll model him after the Professor. He's a
good fellow, moderately good-looking, has position, and certainly
knows something, as professors go. I doubt if he is imposing enough
for the American girl generally, but he's the best I can get in the
time at my disposal."
So the Professor was unconsciously slated for the office of hero;
Mrs. Willard was cast for chaperon, and the Doctor, in spite of
Harley's previous resolve not to use him, was to be introduced for
the comedy element.
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