Maud Brewster! Humphrey Van Weyden, "the cold-blooded fish," the "emotionless monster," the "analytical demon," of Charley Furuseth's christening, in love! And then, without rhyme or reason, all sceptical, my mind flew back to a small biographical note in the red-bound _Who's Who_, and I said to myself, "She was born in Cambridge, and she is twenty-seven years old." And then I said, "Twenty-seven years old and still free and fancy free ?" But how did I know she was fancy free?
And the pang of new-born jealousy put all incredulity to flight.

There was no doubt about it.

I was jealous; therefore I loved.

And the woman I loved was Maud Brewster.
I, Humphrey Van Weyden, was in love! And again the doubt assailed me.
Not that I was afraid of it, however, or reluctant to meet it.

On the contrary, idealist that I was to the most pronounced degree, my philosophy had always recognized and guerdoned love as the greatest thing in the world, the aim and the summit of being, the most exquisite pitch of joy and happiness to which life could thrill, the thing of all things to be hailed and welcomed and taken into the heart.