"Do you believe me," he insisted. "Do I look like a man that would tell lies to a girl like you. Answer me that, now?"
She raised her eyes, and gazed very straightly at him. "No," she said; "I don't think you would. I ... I think you mean what you say!..."
"I do, Eleanor. As true as God's in heaven, I do. Will you not believe me?"
"But I don't love you," she burst out.
"Well, mebbe you don't. That's understandable!" he admitted.
"And the whole thing's so unusual," she protested.
"What does that matter? If I love you and you get to love me, does it matter about anything else? Have wit, woman, have wit!"
"Don't speak to me like that. You're very abrupt, Mr. MacDermott!..." "My name's John to you! Now, don't flare up again. You were nice and amenable a minute ago. You can stop like that. You and me are going to marry some time. The sooner the better. All I want you to do now, as you say you don't love me, is to give me a chance to make you love me. Come out with me for a walk ... or we'll go to a theatre, if you like! Anyway, let's be friends. I don't know anybody in this town except one man, and him and me's had a row over the head of the Daily Sensation!..." "Yes," she interrupted, "you've lost your work through your foolishness. What are you going to do now? It isn't very easy to get work." "I'll get it all right if I want it, I've enough money to keep me easy for a year without doing a hand's turn, and I daresay my mother and my Uncle William 'ud let me have more if I wanted it. I don't want to be on a paper much. I want to write books!" Her interest was restored. "Tell me about the book you've written. Is it printed yet?" she said. He told her of his work, and of the Creams and of Hinde. He told her, too, of his life in Ballyards. "Where do you come from?" he said. "Devonshire," she answered. "My father was rector of a village there until he died. Then mother and I lived in Exeter until she died!..." "You're alone then?" he asked. "Yes. My mother had an annuity. That stopped when she died. My cousin ... he's a doctor in Exeter ... settled up her affairs for me, and when everything was arranged, there was just enough money to pay for my secretarial training and keep me for a year. I trained for six months and then I went as a stop-gap to that office where you saw me. I'm in an office in Long Acre now—a motor place!" "And have you no friends here—relations, I mean?" "Some cousins. I don't often see them. And one or two people who knew father and mother!" "You're really alone then ... like me?" he said. "Yes," she answered. "Yes, I suppose I am!" He leant back in his chair. "It seems like the hand of God," he said, "bringing the two of us together!" "I wish," she said, "you wouldn't talk about God so much!"
III
When he went home that evening, he wrote to his mother. Dear Mother, he wrote, I've got acquainted with a girl here called Eleanor Moore, and I've made up my mind I'm going to marry her. She's greatly against it at present, but I daresay she'll change her mind.... There was more than that in the letter, but it is not necessary to repeat the remainder of it here. He also wrote to Eleanor. My dearest, the letter ran, I'm looking forward to meeting you again tomorrow night at the same place. I know you said you wouldn't meet me, but I'm hoping you'll change your mind. I'll be waiting for you anyway, and I'll wait till seven o'clock for you. Remember that, Eleanor! If you don't turn up, it'll be hard for you to sit in comfort and you thinking of me waiting for you. You'll never have the heart to refuse me, will you? We can have our tea together, and then go for a walk or a ride on a 'bus till dinner-time, and then, if you like, after we've had something to eat, we'll go to a theatre. Don't disappoint me, for I'm terribly in love with you. Yours only, John MacDermott. P. S. Don't be any later than you can help. I hate waiting about for people.