Here was her apartment, just the place I had felt it would be, only infinitely more attractive. High up above the Manhattan jungle, it was quiet and sunny and charming here. From the low, wide living-room windows you could see miles out over the harbor where my work was going so splendidly, and all around the room itself I saw what I was working for. Eleanore's touch was everywhere. An intimate, lovable feminine home with man-sized views from its windows--just like Eleanore herself, from whom I found it difficult to keep my hungry eyes away. To that soft bewildering hair of hers she had done something different--I couldn't tell what, but I loved it. I loved the changing tones of her voice--I hate monotonous voices. I watched the smiling lights in her eyes. She was at her small tea table now. Her motorboat, thank Heaven, was laid up for the winter, and I had her right here in a room, with nothing to do with her eyes but pay a decent amount of attention to me. Then by some chance remark I learned that she had been reading what I wrote, almost all of it, in fact. And at the slight exclamation I made I saw her color slightly and bite her lip as though she were angry with herself for having let that secret out. "What do you want to write," she asked, "when you get through with the harbor?" "Fiction," I said. "I want it so hard sometimes that it seems like a long way ahead. It seems sometimes," I added, "like a girl I'd fallen in love with--but I couldn't even ask her--because I'm so infernally poor." Over the tea cup at her lips Eleanore looked thoughtfully straight into and through and behind my eyes. "Fiction is such a broad field," she remarked. "What kind do you think you're going to try?" "I don't know," I answered. "It still seems so far ahead. You see, I have no name at all, and this harbor at least is a good safe start. I'm afraid I'm rather a cautious sort. When I find what I want--and want so hard that it's the deepest part of me--I like to go slow. I'm afraid to risk losing it all--deciding my life one way or the other--by taking a chance." I made a restless movement. "I wasn't speaking of my work just then," I added gruffly. I suddenly caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror back of Eleanore's chair. And I glared at myself for the fool that I was to have said all that. I hadn't meant to--not in the least! What a paltry looking cuss I was--small, tough and wiry, hair sandy, eyes of no color at all, snub nose and a jaw shut tight as in pain. "You're a queer person," said a voice. "I am," I agreed forlornly. "I'm the queerest fellow I ever met." I caught a grim twinkle in my eyes. Thank God for a sense of humor. "Sometimes," she went on, reflectively, "you seem to me as old as the hills--and again so young and obvious. I'm so sorry to hear you say that you weren't talking of your work. I like to hear men talk of their work."