I had been wondering if I dare say some of all that was in my mind, and I concluded that I did dare—rather than hear all that was in his. So I said:
"Mr. Carney, you have been asking me some questions. Now I wonder if I may ask you some?"
"Sure," he said. "Come ahead. I'd be flattered to get even that much interest out of you."
"It's something I've thought a good deal about," I told him, "and hardly anybody can ever have asked about it, first hand. But you must know, and you could tell me."
"I'll tell you anything you want to know," he said. "Even how much I still think of you."
It was hard to keep my temper, but I did, because I really wanted to know. Every woman must want to know, who's been through it.
"I wish you'd tell me," I said, "just how a man figures everything out for himself, when he begins to hunt down a girl—as you hunted me?"
He stared again, and then he burst out laughing.
"Bless you," he said, "he doesn't figure. He just feels."
"But now, think," I urged. "After all, you have brains—"