"I know you do," I said hungrily. "And that's one of the reasons why you're going to mean so much some day--to somebody's work--and to his whole life." Why couldn't I stop? Had I gone insane? I rose and moved about the room. A low rippling laugh brought me back to my senses. "But how about _me_ and _my_ life?" she asked. "That ought to be thought of a little, you know." I came close beside her: "Let me say this. Won't you? I'll promise never to say it again. Your life is going to be all right. It's going to be quite wonderful--you'll be tremendously happy. I'm sure of that. It's not only the way you always--look--it's the way you always think and feel. It's everything about you." She had looked down at her hands for a moment. Now she looked up suddenly. "Thank you," she said smiling, in a way that told me to smile too. I obeyed. "I did that rather badly, didn't I," I said. "No, you did that rather well. Especially the first part--I think I liked that best of all--the part where you promised so solemnly that you'd never do it again." I went indignantly back to my chair. "Do you know," I said, "I feel sometimes when I'm with you as though I were being managed! Absolutely managed!" "I should think you wouldn't like that," she replied. Her hands were peacefully folded now and she looked at me serenely: "I should think you'd rather manage yourself." I took the hint. From, that day on, each time I came to see her, I managed myself severely. And this apparently pleased her so much that she seemed no longer the least afraid to let me know her as well as I liked. Her father, too, when I met him now and then in the evenings, was most kindly in his welcome. And as winter wore on, my hopes rose high. But one evening, after Dillon had read my story about the Christmas Boat, he gave me a bitter disappointment. "I like it," he said, as he handed it back. "It's a fine dramatic piece of work. But it's only a starter here. To get any idea of our problem you'll have to go all over the harbor. When you've done that for a few months more, and I get back from my trip abroad, I'll be glad to help you." "You're going abroad?" I asked abruptly. "Next month," he said, "with Eleanore. She seems to think I need a rest." Back came the old feeling of emptiness. And gloomily at home that night I wondered if it was because she knew she was leaving so soon that she had been so intimate lately. How outrageous women are. CHAPTER XIII They sailed the middle of March.