"I can understand without reading. You realized that your note was cruel and unlike anything you had done, and your good heart compelled you to write an apology; but your pride got the better of you, and upon second thought you concluded to let the unmerited hurt go on." "Will you kindly stop, the driver, or shall I?" "Does truth annoy you?" "I decline to discuss truth with you. Will you stop the driver?" "Not until we reach Seventy-first Street West." "By what right--" "The right of a man who loves you. There, it is out, and my pride has gone down the wind. After to-night I shall trouble you no further. But every man has the right to tell one woman that he loves her; and I love you. I loved you the moment I first laid eyes on you. I couldn't help it. I say this to you now because I perceive how futile it is. What dreams I have conjured up about you! Poor fool! When I was at work your face was always crossing the page or peering up from the margins. I never saw a fine painting that I did not think of you, or heard a fine piece of music that I did not think of your voice." There was a long interval of silence; block after block went by. I never once looked at her. "If I had been rich I should have put it to the touch some time ago; but my poverty seems to have been fortunate; it has saved me a refusal. In some way I have mortally offended you; how, I can not imagine. It can not be simply because I innocently broke an engagement." Then she spoke. "You dined after the theater that night with a comic-opera singer. You were quite at liberty to do so, only you might have done me the honor to notify me that you had made your choice of entertainment." So it was out! Decidedly it was all over now. I never could explain away the mistake. "I have already explained to you my unfortunate mistake. There was and is no harm that I can see in dining with a woman of her attainments. But I shall put up no defense. You have convicted me. I retract nothing I have said. I _do_ love you." I was very sorry for myself. Cabby drew up. I alighted, and she silently permitted me to assist her down. I expected her immediately to mount the steps. Instead, she hesitated, the knuckle of a forefinger against her lips, and assumed the thoughtful pose of one who contemplates two courses. "Have you a stamp?" she asked finally. "A stamp?"--blankly. "Yes; a postage-stamp." I fumbled in my pocket and found, luckily, a single pink square, which I gave to her. She moistened it with the tip of her tongue and ... stuck it on the letter! "Now, please, drop this in the corner box for me, and take this hat over to Mr. Chittenden's--Sixty-ninth." "What--" "Do as I say, or I shall ask you to return the letter to me." I rushed off toward the letter-box, drew down the lid, and deposited the letter--my letter. When I turned she was running up the steps, and a second later she had disappeared. I hadn't been so happy in all my life! Cabby waited at the curb.