“Anne,” Harry said, taking her shoulders in his hands and turning her toward him. She looked up; he hated the inexorable grief he saw in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling a shaky smile. “I’m sorry, Harry. I—I thought I was going to be all right.”

And then his effervescence settled into something else, and he felt the simple necessity of their fusing. Certain as breathing, he knew that, without her, his life would continue to spiral away from him with nothing to show for it; he would only grow older and lonelier, ending up with his sole legacy a box of dusty papers that no one would bother to read.

Emboldened by the conviction, he leaned down and brushed her mouth with his. Her lips gave way; when he kissed her again, they bloomed with desire. She needed him as much as he needed her, he realized, a little surprised, relieved, thinking, Maybe she did mean it, last night.

On a runaway train, he lifted his head and tipped her chin up with his finger so he could look into her eyes. “Anne, sweetheart, do you want one of those rings?” he said. “Will you let me buy you one? I know I’m not—what you were hoping for. But if you’d let me, I’d—take really good care of you. I promise.”

Her eyes were wide. “You’re not—serious, are you, Harry?” she said, sounding a little afraid.

A week ago, if he’d even managed to get himself into such a situation, he would have laughed it off, and proceeded to the movie as planned. But Anne had made him want everything he’d never quite been conscious that he was missing. “Yes. I’m serious, Anne. I’m crazy about you. I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“In—love?” She clutched the sleeves of his coat in her fists, as though afraid if she let go she would blow away down the street.

He extricated her hands from his coat, and took them in his. He sank to one knee, careless of his coat and pants, of the discomfort of the sidewalk under his knee. “I’m in love with you, Anne,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

For an agonizing moment, her green eyes were inscrutable; puzzled, if anything. Then, a smile began to spread across her face.

“You can’t blame me for asking,” he said lightly, still holding her hands. He was trying to put the brakes on the train a little, afraid she was going to say no and he was going to crash and burn.

“I didn’t mean for you to feel sorry for me,” she said, the unsure words not matching her happy smile.

“Anne, I don’t. I don’t.”

She laughed then, and it was a joyful sound of release. “Yes, Harry,” she said. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”