I want all
the life there is in the world--all the beauty--all the happiness! And I
can't wait--I want it soon!"

From under the brim of her soft white hat her blue-gray eyes were fixed
intently on the shore, which was miles away. But watching her I saw she
knew that all the time I was saying desperately, "I want you."

I knew she did not want me to say anything like that out loud, and I
felt myself that I had no right--not until I had done so much more in my
writing. But I kept circling around it. Half the time on purpose and as
often quite unconsciously, in all we talked about those days I kept
eagerly filling in the picture of the life we two might lead. When in
one of her cool hostile moods--moods which came over her suddenly--she
told me almost jealously how happy she'd been with her father abroad and
how together they had planned to go to India, China, Japan in the years
to come, I brought her back to my subject by saying: "I mean to travel a
lot myself."

"That's one advantage I have as a writer," I continued earnestly. "I'll
never be tied down to one place. All my life--whenever I choose--I can
pick up my work and go anywhere."

She looked straight back into my eyes.

"I wish my father could," she said.

"Look here," I said indignantly. "Your father has been four months
abroad while I have been in Brooklyn! Isn't it only fair and square to
let _me_ travel this afternoon?" She looked at me reluctantly.

"Yes," she agreed. "I suppose it is."

"Come along," I urged, and off we went. While our boat drifted idly that
long, lazy afternoon, we went careering all over the world and I kept
doggedly by her side. Every now and then I would make her stop while we
had a good look at each other, exploring deep into the old questions,
"What are you and what do you want?"

"You can't run a motorboat all your life," I reminded her. "What are you
going to tackle next?"

"Our living-room," she answered. "I'm going to have it done over next
month."

That took us into house furnishings, and I gave her ideas by the score.
I had never thought about this before, but now I thought hard and
eagerly--until she brought me up with a jerk, by pityingly murmuring:

"What perfectly frightful taste you have. It's funny--because you're an
artist--you really write quite beautiful things."

"I don't care," I answered grimly. "I can see that living-room----"

"So can I," she said cheerfully. "But so long as you like it, that's all