And Eleanore was smiling--in a way that steadied me in a flash. For her smile was so plainly a quick, strong effort to steady herself. "I'm glad you want me like that," she said, in a voice that did not sound like hers. "I don't believe in hiding things.... I'm--very happy." She looked down at her hands in her lap and they slowly locked together. "But of course it means our whole lives, you see--and we mustn't hurry or make a mistake. Now that we know--this much--we can talk about it quite openly--about each other and what we want--what kinds of lives--what we believe in--whether we'd be best for each other. It's what we ought to talk about--a good many times--it may be weeks." "All right," I agreed. I was utterly changed. At her first words I had felt a deep rush of relief, and seeing her tremendous pluck and the effort she was making, I pitied, worshiped and loved her all in the same moment. And as we talked on for a few minutes more in that grave and unnaturally sensible way about the pros and cons of it all, these feelings within me mounted so swiftly that all at once I again broke off. "I don't believe there's any use in this," I declared. "It's perfectly idiotic!" "Of course it is," she promptly agreed. And then after a rigid instant when each of us looked at the other as though asking, "Quick! What are we going to do?"--she burst out laughing excitedly. So did I, and that carried her into my arms and--I remember nothing--until after a while she asked me to go, because she wanted to be by herself. And I noticed how bright and wet were her eyes. I saw them still in the darkness down along the river front, where I walked for half the rest of the night, stopping to draw a deep breath of the sea and laugh excitedly and go on. * * * * * Life changed rapidly after that night. I grew so absorbed in Eleanore and in all that was waiting just ahead, that it was hard not to shut out everything else, most of all impersonal things. It was hard to write, and for days I wrote nothing. I remember only intimate talks. Everyone I talked to seemed to be deeply personal. I told my father about it the next evening before supper. I found him in his old chair in the study buried deep in his paper. "Say, Dad--would you mind coming up to your room?" He smote his paper to one side. "What the devil," he asked, "do I want to come up to my room for?" "I've--the fact is I've something you ought to know." I could hear Sue in the other room. "All right, my boy," he said nervously. As he followed me he kept clearing his throat. Sue must have guessed and prepared him. In his room he fussed about, grunted hard over getting off his shoes and, finding his slippers, then lay back on his sofa with his hands behind his head and uttered an explosive sigh. "All right, son, now fire ahead," he said jocosely. I loved him at that moment. "You know Eleanore Dillon," I began. "She turned you down!" "No! She took me!"