[April 3.]
THIS evening in the slow-deepening dusk I sat by my window and spent an hour in passionate conversation with the Devil. I fancied I sat, with my hands folded and my feet crossed, on an ugly but comfortable red velvet sofa in some nondescript room.
And the fascinating man-devil was seated near in a frail willow chair.
He had willingly come to pass the time of day with me. He was in a good-humored mood, and I amused and interested him. And for myself, I was extremely glad to see the Devil sitting there and felt vividly as always. But I sat quietly enough.
The fascinating man-devil has fascinating steel-gray eyes, and they looked at me with every variety of glance—from quizzical to tender.
It were easy—oh, how easy—to follow those eyes to the earth’s ends.
The Devil leaned back in the frail willow chair and looked at me.
“And now that I am here, Mary MacLane,” he said, “what would you?”
“I want you to marry me,” I replied at once. “And I want it more than ever anything was wanted since the world began.”