As we bowled along the Middle Island Country Road _she_ wanted to know if I had ever driven there before. I had to say "yes" (I couldn't lie to her), and then she asked an embarrassing question or two. But she was almost pathetically easy to put off, so afraid she was of being overcurious. I would have given a good deal to burst out with the whole truth, in that mood of mine, a mood of exaltation with my soul flaming up like a beacon. But even if I'd seriously thought of speaking, I couldn't with the back of the car boiling over with handsome giantesses from Colorado--goddesses from the Garden of the Gods. They were pretty good about not interrupting; but now and again they couldn't resist breaking in with "Oh, _is_ it our dear old Peconic River again, that gives the name to Riverhead?" or, "_Did_ they call it Jamesport after King James the Second of England?" or, "_Can_ those beautiful black trees in front of that _darling_ white house be Irish yews?" or, "_Don't_ you think Southold's the most adorable old town we've seen _yet_?" Of course, if my companion on the front seat had catechized me in this way, I should have been charmed to give her all my feeble fund of information concerning Huguenot and English settlers, dates, etc. (fortunately 1648 will do in most instances!), but it was a little disconcerting to hear these extraneous discords just when my heart was beating well in tune with the oldest song in the world. You now need no explanation of what has happened to me. Besides, you've been expecting it to happen. I knew that, and expected on my part to disappoint you by its _not_ happening. But this Girl Magic has been too much for me. I've gone under; and I should be a happy man as the moon sets and the sun rises to-day if only I'd listened to you on that moonlight night before it was too late. Yet is it too late? That's what I want to thrash out. Have I locked the door between myself and happiness with such a girl as Patricia Moore, and is the key lost? Or can I with your help find the key, oil the lock, and open the door? I used to think a very young girl went about--so to speak--with a love letter in her pocket all ready for post except that it wasn't yet addressed. But this girl isn't like that. She wouldn't write the letter till she knew the address she wanted to send it to. All the same I feel the possibility that I _could_ make her care for me.