"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.