to steady herself.

"I'm glad you want me like that," she said, in a voice that did not
sound like hers. "I don't believe in hiding things.... I'm--very happy."
She looked down at her hands in her lap and they slowly locked together.
"But of course it means our whole lives, you see--and we mustn't hurry
or make a mistake. Now that we know--this much--we can talk about it
quite openly--about each other and what we want--what kinds of
lives--what we believe in--whether we'd be best for each other. It's
what we ought to talk about--a good many times--it may be weeks."

"All right," I agreed. I was utterly changed. At her first words I had
felt a deep rush of relief, and seeing her tremendous pluck and the
effort she was making, I pitied, worshiped and loved her all in the same
moment. And as we talked on for a few minutes more in that grave and
unnaturally sensible way about the pros and cons of it all, these
feelings within me mounted so swiftly that all at once I again broke
off.

"I don't believe there's any use in this," I declared. "It's perfectly
idiotic!"

"Of course it is," she promptly agreed.

And then after a rigid instant when each of us looked at the other as
though asking, "Quick! What are we going to do?"--she burst out laughing
excitedly. So did I, and that carried her into my arms and--I remember
nothing--until after a while she asked me to go, because she wanted to
be by herself. And I noticed how bright and wet were her eyes.

I saw them still in the darkness down along the river front, where I
walked for half the rest of the night, stopping to draw a deep breath
of the sea and laugh excitedly and go on.

* * * * *

Life changed rapidly after that night. I grew so absorbed in Eleanore
and in all that was waiting just ahead, that it was hard not to shut out
everything else, most of all impersonal things. It was hard to write,
and for days I wrote nothing. I remember only intimate talks. Everyone I
talked to seemed to be deeply personal.

I told my father about it the next evening before supper. I found him in
his old chair in the study buried deep in his paper.

"Say, Dad--would you mind coming up to your room?" He smote his paper to
one side.

"What the devil," he asked, "do I want to come up to my room for?"

"I've--the fact is I've something you ought to know." I could hear Sue
in the other room.

"All right, my boy," he said nervously. As he followed me h