“I asked her if she’d had a good time, and she told me it had been the most wonderful day of her life—different from all others.
“‘Honest?’ I asked.
“She didn’t answer, but looked off over the water, and I saw a tear on her cheek.
“‘Honest?’ I said again.
“‘Yes;’ she said. ‘Honest, and I never knew before what it was to be honest.’
“I didn’t know what she meant, but we had got to Chicago now. It wasn’t very late and I asked her should we go to Reilly’s again, and she said it would spoil the day. I thought so, too. On the way to where I’d left her the night before, there was a little park. We went in and sat on one of the benches. It was only a little clump of trees, but it made a nice place to visit, because there was no one around. People in cities don’t act like they were seasoned to outdoors except when it’s hot weather.
“I was booked to leave the next morning, so I couldn’t let any grass grow. I asked her to marry me.
“‘I wish you hadn’t asked me,’ she said, and her voice sounded like there were tears in her eyes.
“‘Why?’ I asked.
“‘I wish,’ she went on without taking any notice of me—just like she was talking to herself—‘that I dared love a man like you.’