apprehension, and timidity, which had so long marked her manner toward
me.

And now, in that moment, as her face thus revealed itself, and as this
glance thrilled through me, there flashed upon my mind in a moment the
meaning of it all. There was but an instant in which she thus looked at
me--the next instant a flush passed over her face, and her eyes fell,
but that very instant I snatched her hand in both of mine and held it.

She did not withdraw it She raised her eyes again, and again their
strange questioning thrilled through me.

"Marion," said I, and I drew her toward me. Her head fell forward. I
felt her hand tremble in mine.

"Marion," said I--lingering fondly on the name by which I now called
her for the first time--"if I ask you to be mine--will you turn away?"

She did not turn away.

She raised her face again for a moment, and again for a moment the
thrilling glance flashed from her deep, dark eyes, and a faint smile of
heavenly sweetness beamed across the glory of her solemn face.

There!

I let the curtain drop.

I'm not good at describing love-scenes, and all that sort of thing, you
know.

What's more, I don't want to be either good or great at that.

For, if a fellow feels like a fool, you know, when he's talking
spooney, how much more like a fool must he feel when he sits down and
deliberately writes spooney! You musn't expect that sort of thing from
me at any rate--not from Macrorie. I can feel as much as any fellow,
but that's no reason why I should write it all out.

Another point.

I'm very well aware that, in the story of my love, I've gone full and
fair against the practice of the novelist. For instance, now, no
novelist would take a hero and make him fall in love with a girl, no
matter how deucedly pretty she might be, who had been in love with
another fellow, and tried to run off with him. Of course not. Very
well. Now, you see, my dear fellow, all I've got to say is this, that
I'm not a novelist. I'm an historian, an autobiographer, or any thing
else you choose. I've no imagination whatever. I rely on facts. I can't
distort them. And, what's more, if I could do so, I wouldn't, no matter
what the taste or fashion of the day might be.

There's a lot of miserable, carping sneaks about, whose business it is
to find fault with every thing, and it just occurs to me that some of
this lot may take it into their heads--notwithstanding the fads, mind
you--may take it into their heads,