"I love you," she said. "I could not let you go. I thought last night that I could carry it through. I thought my duty was to stay with father. But it isn't!" "And you came _here_ to tell me!" I gasped. "Why not?" she said, with a catch in her voice. "I was afraid I would never see you again and I love you." When I think of all the sham there is among women, I treasure the memory of that simple little explanation. It was delivered as a full answer to all the conventionalities from here back to the time of the Serpent. It was spoken in a low but confident voice, with her hands upon her breast as if to calm the emotions within, and was directed toward me with the first frank exposure of her eyes which were still wet with tears. "I have been miserable!" she said. "A woman is meant for some man, after all. And if she resists, she is resisting God! It all has been shown to me so clearly. And I knew that you were the one. There's nothing else that makes any difference, and it sweeps you off your feet, so it must be nature, because it gave me the courage to telephone you and then try to find you and come here and wait and come again, and only nature can make any one go against all her habits and education. And I believe I'll call you Jerry, if you still--" "Good God! Love you?" said I. "Forever!" "Always?" "Forever." She gave her burning hands to mine, and oblivious of the old negro, whose eyes were upon us, we stood there, looking at each other in awe, very much frightened and very much, for that moment,--and I sometimes wonder if not in truth,--the centre of the universe. "You belong to me, Jerry?" she said tearfully. "Now?" "Yes," said I. "Then I must go back quickly," she explained, after a moment. "I do not want father to know yet. I want to prepare the way. I don't want you to speak with him for a week. I will tell him then. Perhaps you think it is strange. But Friday, when he knows, you may come." She had a carriage waiting for her, and I walked with her to its door. "I want to kiss you, Julianna," I whispered. She looked up to see whether the driver could observe us. He could not. And then the mischief-loving quality of womankind appeared in her. She gave forth a glad little laugh. "On Friday," she said. The door slammed, and I thought, as I caught a last glance at her then, that she was a luminous being of dreams, lighting the dark recess of a common cab.