"What?"
"What you said at first."
"I don't know what you mean. I have been saying the same thing all the time—ever since I knew you—ever since I was born—that I love you."
"You must never say that again—promise me before I go."
"I promise you," I said slowly, "that I will say it as long as I live."
She appeared to let herself drift for a half second, then she gave a little catch at herself.
"No, really, you must not—I cannot allow you. I have no right to let you. I must go, and if you are a friend of mine, you will never——"
"Listen to me," I interrupted firmly. "I have not asked you for anything; I have not asked your permission; I am not a friend of yours and I shall never be that. I don't want to be your friend. I love you, and I am going to win your love. Now you can go. Come on."
We walked on and I saw her safely home. We talked about everything and I told her much of myself. But she was plainly thinking not about what I was saying then, but what I had said on the dusty steps. When we reached her home, I saved her embarrassment. I held out my hand and said, "Good-by, I love you."
No woman can quite let a man go, at least, no woman with a woman's coquetry can. After I had turned away, what must Eleanor Leigh do but say demurely, "I hope you will win your case." I turned back, of course. "I will," I said, "in both courts." Then I strode away. I went home feeling somewhat as a man might who, after shipwreck, had reached an unknown shore. I was in a new land and knew not where I stood or how; or whether the issue would be life or death. I only knew that I had passed a crisis in my life and whatever came I must meet it. I was strangely happy, yet I had had no word of encouragement.