rning, when my valet told me there were no
letters, I turned aside in bed to weep, and I think I must have lain
crying for hours, thinking how I had lost my friend, the girl whom I
met in Dulwich, whom I took to Paris, the singer whose art I had
watched over. It was a long time before I could get out of bed and
dress myself, and during breakfast tears came into my eyes; it was
provoking, for my servant was looking at me. You know how long he
has been with me, so, yielding to the temptation to tell somebody, I
told him; I had to speak to somebody, and I think he was sorry for
me, and for you. But he is a well-bred servant, and said very
little, thinking it better to leave the room on the first
opportunity.

"Merat, who brought your letter, told me you said I would understand
why it was necessary for you to go to a convent for rest. Well, in a
way, I do understand, and, in a way, I am glad you are going, for at
all events your decision puts an end to the strife that has been
going on between us now for the last three years. It was first
difficult for me to believe, but I have become reconciled to the
belief that you will never be happy except in a chaste life. I
daresay it would be easy for me, for Ulick, or for some other man
whom you might take a fancy to, to cause you to put your idea behind
you for a time. Your senses are strong, and they overpower you. You
were, on more than one occasion, nearly yielding to me, but if you
had yielded it would have only resulted in another crisis, so I am
glad you did not. It is no pleasure to make love to a woman who
thinks it wrong to allow you to make love to her, and, could I get
you as a mistress, strange as it will seem to you, upon my word,
Evelyn, I don't think I would accept you. I have been through too
much. Of course, if I could get back the old Evelyn, that would be
different, but I am very much afraid she is dead or overpowered;
another Evelyn has been born in you, and it overpowers the old. An
idea has come into your mind, you must obey it, or your life would be
misery. Yes, I understand, and I am glad you are going to the
convent, for I would not see you wretched. When I say I understand,
I only mean that I acquiesce--I shall never cease to wonder how such
a strange idea has come into your mind; but there is no use arguing
that point, we have argued it often enough, God knows! I cannot go
to London to bid you goodbye. Goodbyes are hateful to me. I never go
to trains t