able. I forgot to tell you that I am going to New York to visit
Alice May, Captain Morton's cousin. Auntie is angry. Are you angry,
too? Is all the world suspicious, and of Othello's complexion? If the
primitive passions do rage just as furiously even though we speak
Victorian English, tell me, what's the use of development? We are
simply more trammeled and less frank. Having blown off the steam of my
wrath, I'll condescend to say that the invitation from Alice just
reached me, and that I have decided quite suddenly. Again, does it make
you angry? Would you rather have me fettered to your wrist by a nice,
neat little chain with your monogram on it and a jeweled pad-lock?

[Sidenote: _Francis Hume to Zoe Montrose_]

Angry because you are going away? My lady, heart of me, you know me
better. You are free from everything but my love. It follows you
everywhere, poor pensioner. It has nothing to claim, nothing to exact.
Give it place in your suite, and be patient with it; for it would hide
away rather than break in upon your mood. All your moods are like
crystal bubbles, no more to be shivered than one of God's beautiful
worlds. I love you; but you are infinitely sacred, infinitely precious
to me,--above all, and above measure, free. Go, dearest lady; be happy.
Think of me when the thought is an added pleasure, and then--come back
to me.

[Sidenote: _Zoe Montrose to Francis Hume_]

Dear,--O, at moments like this I feel as if I could repay you so
royally! You are a knight peerless. Remember, whatever comes between
us, that I knew this of you. I shall always think of you with
reverence. If you were here, perhaps I should be perverse and willful,
and prick your offered hand with some tempestuous thorn; but I do meet
you with one half my soul--perhaps with all my real soul. I send you a
kiss. Come to the station if you like; but it will be to see the outer
me, the worldly one.

[Sidenote: _To the Unknown Friend_]

She is gone. There is nothing to do for a week--a month, perhaps--but
prowl about this dismal city, looking in the faces of men. At the
theatres there is heavy comedy played by buffoons. So I stay away and
watch my kind, and wonder what I'm going to do to make a man of myself.
Write? What? Worldfuls of thought are creating themselves within me,
but as yet they are only star-dust. I doubt if they will be anything
more. There is a strange ache in my throat, a strange failing within
me. Is it what children call hom