"Do you remember that when you asked me how old I was and I said twenty-one, Moulton told me to say 'Sir'? Passion or love is not the point. A white woman taking to a black man, even going to bed with him, there's nothing absurd about that. But not marriage. I say if this Susan Brooke wants to marry my son there's something wrong with her. She has a screw loose. All the difficulties, the snags, the embarrassments, the complications…I don't need to list them for you."

"No."

"She couldn't possibly be a good wife to him, and she ought to know it. There's something wrong with her. It may be something specific in her past, or it may be her basic character. If I can find out what it is I can put it up to my son; he's not a fool. But the finding out-I don't know how, I'm not equipped for it. But you are." He turned his palms up. "So here I am."

Wolfe said distinctly, "Pride of race."

"What! Who?"

"You, of course. You may not be aware-"

Whipple was moving, up. On his feet, his eyes, half closed, slanted down at Wolfe. "I am not a racist. I see I have made a mistake. I didn't think-"

"Nonsense. Sit down. Your problem-"

"Forget it. Forget me. I should have forgotten you. To accuse me of-"

"Confound it," Wolfe bellowed, "sit down! An anthropologist disclaiming pride of race? You should know better. If you are an anthropos you have it. The remark was not offensive, but I withdraw it because it was pointless. You have been moved to action; what moved you is immaterial. What moves me is the fact that I'm indebted to you and you have dunned me, and I'll pay. But first I have a comment. Will you please sit down?"

"I suppose I'm touchy," Whipple said, and sat.

Wolfe regarded him. "The comment is about marriage.