“I have never before spoken of love to a girl. My lips have never touched a girl’s.” And then, “I have been waiting for you!” A deep flush suffused her neck and face, and for the first time she betrayed confusion. “Don’t, please!” she whispered. “It is impossible that any man could love any girl so suddenly. And I don’t like to be treated as a silly.” King had whirled suddenly and was facing her. “Impossible? Do you know that it takes all the will power I can exert to keep from snatching you up in my arms? I resist because I don’t want to frighten you. What do I care for people, for Broadway? This is the twentieth century! We haven’t time to play guitars under windows or sit in the moonlight week after week testing our emotions. We live by faith, move by faith--faith in ourselves, first, because if we are square, that’s faith in God; and then by faith in our women. And when they are square, that’s trust in God. We don’t just meet the women He creates for us; we have known them all along. We just recognize them and take their hands in ours for eternity. My soul has been sitting at the window all my life, waiting, watching. I have found you. Name? family? occupation?--they are hung on human beings as so many garments. I don’t know any of yours, but I recognized you at the first glance. You are for me and I for you! And in your heart, you know it!” “Come, oh, come!” she whispered hurriedly, paling a little. “We must not stand talking on the street. See, people are beginning to stare. You are making me conspicuous.” He followed her in silence disdaining to look about him, but already regretting his outburst. It had gathered more force and emphasis than he intended. His moodiness returned. Where were all the fine things he had planned to say? What a thistle eater he was! They had reached Madison Square. She regained composure first and seated herself on a convenient bench. He heard again the sweet, low laughter and felt her eyes looking up to him. “Funny, isn’t it?” he questioned ruefully. “Immense!” Very prompt. “You believe me, nevertheless.” “Oh, I believe _you_ do. But come, sit down and tell me about that home, a little further down than Charleston and Savannah. Coast?” “Island,” he said, rather glad of the change. “Surf, and all that, I suppose?” “Nothing finer on the ocean. Coney Island, Rockaway, Cape May, Atlantic City--why, the surf there is a ripple compared with Cumberland and Tybee.” “You swim, of course.” “All islanders swim, like river rats. You should see the breakers at Cumberland--twenty miles of them down to Dungeness. It takes a swimmer to get through there, and back, when the wind is in the northeast. But it’s second nature with the natives. They ride the combers like wild horses.” “How long have you ever been in the water--there, among the--wild horses?” She leaned forward eagerly, her eyes searching his every feature.