was laid
up for the winter, and I had her right here in a room, with nothing to
do with her eyes but pay a decent amount of attention to me. Then by
some chance remark I learned that she had been reading what I wrote,
almost all of it, in fact. And at the slight exclamation I made I saw
her color slightly and bite her lip as though she were angry with
herself for having let that secret out.

"What do you want to write," she asked, "when you get through with the
harbor?"

"Fiction," I said. "I want it so hard sometimes that it seems like a
long way ahead. It seems sometimes," I added, "like a girl I'd fallen in
love with--but I couldn't even ask her--because I'm so infernally
poor."

Over the tea cup at her lips Eleanore looked thoughtfully straight into
and through and behind my eyes.

"Fiction is such a broad field," she remarked. "What kind do you think
you're going to try?"

"I don't know," I answered. "It still seems so far ahead. You see, I
have no name at all, and this harbor at least is a good safe start. I'm
afraid I'm rather a cautious sort. When I find what I want--and want so
hard that it's the deepest part of me--I like to go slow. I'm afraid to
risk losing it all--deciding my life one way or the other--by taking a
chance." I made a restless movement. "I wasn't speaking of my work just
then," I added gruffly.

I suddenly caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror back of Eleanore's
chair. And I glared at myself for the fool that I was to have said all
that. I hadn't meant to--not in the least! What a paltry looking cuss I
was--small, tough and wiry, hair sandy, eyes of no color at all, snub
nose and a jaw shut tight as in pain.

"You're a queer person," said a voice.

"I am," I agreed forlornly. "I'm the queerest fellow I ever met." I
caught a grim twinkle in my eyes. Thank God for a sense of humor.

"Sometimes," she went on, reflectively, "you seem to me as old as the
hills--and again so young and obvious. I'm so sorry to hear you say that
you weren't talking of your work. I like to hear men talk of their
work."

"I know you do," I said hungrily. "And that's one of the reasons why
you're going to mean so much some day--to somebody's work--and to his
whole life."

Why couldn't I stop? Had I gone insane? I rose and moved about the room.
A low rippling laugh brought me back to my senses.

"But how about _me_ and _my_ life?" she asked. "That ought to be thought
of a little, you know."

I came c