“Why don't you go?” the girl forced herself to ask. “Oh, I'm not ready yet. Should you write to me if I went to Chicago?” “I don't think you'd find my letters very interesting. You wouldn't want any news from Equity.” “Your letters wouldn't be interesting if you gave me the Equity news; but they would if you left it out. Then you'd have to write about yourself.” “Oh, I don't think that would interest anybody.” “Well, I feel almost like going out to Chicago to see.” “But I haven't promised to write yet,” said the girl, laughing for joy in his humor. “I shall have to stay in Equity till you do, then. Better promise at once.” “Wouldn't that be too much like marrying a man to get rid of him?” “I don't think that's always such a bad plan--for the man.” He waited for her to speak; but she had gone the length of her tether in this direction. “Byron says,-- 'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,-- 'Tis woman's whole existence.' Do you believe that?” He dwelt upon her with his tree look, in the happy embarrassment with which she let her head droop. “I don't know,” she murmured. “I don't know anything about a man's life.” “It was the woman's I was asking about.” “I don't think I'm competent to answer.” “Well, I'll tell you, then. I think Byron was mistaken. My experience is, that, when a man is in love, there's nothing else of him. That's the reason I've kept out of it altogether of late years. My advice is, don't fall in love: it takes too much time.” They both laughed at this. “But about corresponding, now; you haven't said whether you would write to me, or not. Will you?” “Can't you wait and see?” she asked, slanting a look at him, which she could not keep from being fond. “No, no. Unless you wrote to me I couldn't go to Chicago.” “Perhaps I ought to promise, then, at once.” “You mean that you wish me to go.” “You said that you were going. You oughtn't to let anything stand in the way of your doing the best you can for yourself.” “But you would miss me a little, wouldn't you? You would try to miss me, now and then?” “Oh, you are here pretty often. I don't think I should have much difficulty in missing you.” “Thanks, thanks! I can go with a light heart, now. Good by.” He made a pretence of rising. “What! Are you going at once?” “Yes, this very night,--or to-morrow. Or no, I can't go to-morrow. There's something I was going to do to-morrow.” “Perhaps go to church.” “Oh, that of course. But it was in the afternoon. Stop! I have it! I want you to go sleigh-riding with me in the afternoon.” “I don't know about that,” Marcia began. “But I do,” said the young man. “Hold on: I'll put my request in writing.” He opened her portfolio, which lay on the table. “What elegant stationery! May I use some of this elegant stationery? The letter is to a lady,--to open a correspondence. May I?” She laughed her assent. “How ought I to begin? Dearest Miss Marcia, or just Dear Marcia: which is better?”