The tremendousness of his realization that he was in love with her frightened him, and yet he was gloriously happy. Exultant joy, a rapture faintly akin to the ecstasy that had thrilled him the first Christmas morning he could remember, gave a buoyancy to his brain, his heart, his soul. He knew that he had loved her from the moment he met her and regardless of what the future held for them he would go on loving her forever. Returning to his desk after the conference in the "chief's" office on the story told by "Big Jim" Hatch, John found a sheet of copy paper stuck in the roller of his typewriter. That was the office boy's way of leaving memoranda of telephone calls for the reporters. "Call Miss Carrillo at the studio," John read. He went immediately to the telephone booth. "There will be a pre-view of the picture, my latest, here tonight and I thought you might like to see it," she said. "Reggie is so busy campaigning that he can't be here," she added. "I would like it," he told her. "Can you come?" "Yes, certainly." "Splendid," she said. "The pre-view will be at 7:30, but can't you get here earlier so we can have dinner together and talk?" "At six, then," he suggested. "At six," she assented. He wondered why it was he felt relieved when she said that Gibson would not be there with them. It was dusk when he reached the studio a few minutes before six. She had waited for him in her dressing room to which he was escorted by the maid. "There's a little place a few blocks away where we always go for dinner when we're kept late," she said. "I discovered it myself. I delight in finding little out-of-the-way places to eat. Reggie can't understand it. He's uncomfortable every minute of the time we're there." "You would have liked my father," he said. "Almost every week he treated mother and me by taking us to dinner at some genuinely picturesque place he had found. Sometimes it would be a little Spanish restaurant in Sonora Town, sometimes an Italian cafe in North Broadway and sometimes a French table de hote, which I liked best. Mother was like you say Gibson is, uncomfortable every minute, but father and I enjoyed it immensely. One night, when mother wasn't with us, we had tamales at one of those wagon lunch places drawn up at the curb near the Plaza and lighted by a sputtering kerosene range and a lantern that gave it an appearance of being a ship's cabin. I'll never forget it." "You miss your father greatly, don't you?" she said. The sympathy in her voice was like soothing music. "Everything in me that amounts to anything I owe to him," he said. They walked to the "little place around the corner," as Consuello referred to it. The dinner was served to them at a corner table in a spotlessly clean room of "Mother" Graham's cafe, which was only large enough to accommodate a dozen couples. The proprietress, "Mother" Graham, who took as much pride in her cookery as the chef of the most expensive cafe, greeted Consuello effusively.