"Would you take my stories?"
"You better believe I would," he said.
"Why?"
"Well, why do you suppose?"
"Because you think my stories are good or because you like me—which?"
He laughed, and told me to finish my coffee.
I said:
"You must like me some, else you wouldn't have cared about Fred."
He tried to frown at me for that, but instead laughed outright, and said if it gave me any satisfaction to believe that, to go on believing it.
My happiness was dashed when he said he had to return to Richmond on the eleven o'clock train. I had been secretly hoping he would remain in Chicago a few days. When I faltered out this hope, he said rather shortly: