"Now I know you do like me," I said, "else you wouldn't say things like
that."
"Nonsense!" he said.
"Why do you bother about me at all, then?" I asked.
He had put the key in the lock now. He didn't look up when he answered
that, but kept twisting the key.
"I told you why. I'm interested in you--that's all," he said.
"Is that--_really_--all?" I asked tremulously.
"Yes," he said in a rough whisper; "that is really all, little girl."
"Well, anyway," I said, "even if you don't love me, I love you. You
don't mind my doing that, do you?"
I could _feel_ his smile in the darkness of that little porch as he
said:
"No, don't stop doing _that_, whatever happens. That would be a
calamity hard to bear--now."
It's not much to have permission to love a person, who doesn't love
you, but it was a happy girl who slept on the couch that night. Lolly
came in after I did, but I made her sleep inside. She wanted to know
why on earth I had all the pillows on the couch. I didn't answer. How
could I tell her that I wanted them about me because _he_ had put them
there?
In the morning, on the table, I found half a cigar that he had smoked.
I rolled it up in tissue-paper and put it in the drawer where I kept
only my most cherished treasures.