"Marry, and then you will not have to," I said flippantly.
"You're a sad dog. Do you know, I've been thinking about epigrams."
"No!"
"Yes. I find that an epigram is produced by the same cause that
produces the pearl in the oyster."
"That is to say, a healthy mentality never superinduces an epigram?
Fudge!" said I, yanking the pup from his lap on to mine. "According to
your diagnosis, your own mind is diseased."
"Have I cracked an epigram?"--with pained surprise.
"Well, you nearly bent one," I compromised. Then we both laughed, and
the pup started up and licked my face before I could prevent him.
"Did I ever show you this?"--taking out a locket which was attached to
one end of his watch-chain. He passed the trinket to me.
"What is it?" I asked, turning it over and over.
"It's the one slender link that connects me with my babyhood. It wag
around my neck when Scharfenstein picked me up. Open it and look at
the face inside."
I did so. A woman's face peered up at me. It might have been
beautiful but for the troubled eyes and the drooping lips. It was
German in type, evidently of high breeding, possessing the subtle lines
which distinguish the face of the noble from the peasant's. From the
woman's face I glanced at Max's. The eyes were something alike.
"Who do you think it is?" I asked, when I had studied the face
sufficiently to satisfy my curiosity.
"I've a sneaking idea that it may be my mother. Scharfenstein found me
toddling about in a railroad station, and that locket was the only
thing about me that might be used in the matter of identification. You
will observe that there is no lettering, not even the jeweler's usual
carat-mark to qualify the gold. I recall nothing; life with me dates
only from the wide plains and grazing cattle. I was born either in
Germany or Austria. That's all I know. And to tell you the honest
truth, boy, it's the reason I've placed my woman-ideal so high. So
long as I place her over my head I'm not foolish enough to weaken into
thinking I can have her. What woman wants a man without a name?"
"You poor old Dutchman, you! You can buy a genealogy with your income.
And a woman nowadays marries the man, the man. It's only horses, dogs
and cattle that we buy for their pedigrees. Come; you ought to have a
strawberry mark on your arm," I suggested lightly; for there were times
when Max brooded over the mystery which enveloped his birth.