Isn't this borough a bower of beauty--a flowery thicket where the prettiest kind in all the world grow under glass or outdoors?
And what do you do?
You used to pretend to prowl about inspecting the yearly crop of posies, growling, cynical, dissatisfied; but you've even given that up.

Now you only point your nose skyward and squall for a mate, and yowl mournfully that you never have seen your ideal.

_I_ know _you_." "I never have seen my ideal," retorted Gatewood sulkily, "but I know she exists--somewhere between heaven and Hoboken." "You're sure, are you ?" "Oh, _I'm_ sure.

And, rich or poor, good or bad, she was fashioned for me alone.

That's a theory of mine; _you_ needn't accept it; in fact, it's none of your business, Tommy." "All the same," insisted Kerns, "did you ever consider that if your ideal does exist somewhere, it is morally up to you to find her ?" "Haven't I inspected every debutante for ten years?
You don't expect me to advertise for an ideal, do you--object, matrimony ?" Kerns regarded him intently.