introduced me to a lady fit to be, and willing to be, Mrs. John
Ingerfield, I shall decline to renew it."

John Ingerfield refills his own glass and hospitably pushes the
bottle towards his guest--who, however, contrary to his custom, takes
no notice of it, but stares hard at his shoe-buckles.

"Are you serious?" he says at length.

"Quite serious," is the answer. "I want to marry. My wife must be a
lady by birth and education. She must be of good family--of family
sufficiently good, indeed, to compensate for the refinery. She must
be young and beautiful and charming. I am purely a business man. I
want a woman capable of conducting the social department of my life.
I know of no such lady myself. I appeal to you, because you, I know,
are intimate with the class among whom she must be sought."

"There may be some difficulty in persuading a lady of the required
qualifications to accept the situation," says Cathcart, with a touch
of malice.

"I want you to find one who will," says John Ingerfield.

Early in the evening Will Cathcart takes leave of his host, and
departs thoughtful and anxious; and John Ingerfield strolls
contemplatively up and down his wharf, for the smell of oil and
tallow has grown to be very sweet to him, and it is pleasant to watch
the moonbeams shining on the piled-up casks.

Six weeks go by. On the first day of the seventh John takes Will