d declare myself to you under the
cloud of your great fortune. It was too great. There's nothing
creditable in that feeling, as I look at it; as a matter of simple fact,
it was a form of cowardice--fear of what you would think, and very
likely say--fear of the world's comment too, I suppose. But the cloud
being rolled away I have spoken, and I don't care so much. I can face
things with a quiet mind now that I have told you the truth in its own
terms. You may call it sentimentality or any other nickname you like. It
is quite true that it was not intended for a scientific statement. Since
it annoys you, let it be extinguished. But please believe that it was
serious to me if it was comedy to you. I have said that I love you and
honor you and would hold you dearest of all the world. Now give me leave
to go."

But she held out her hands to him.

CHAPTER XIII

WRITING A LETTER

"If you insist," Trent said, "I suppose you will have your way. But I
had much rather write it when I am not with you. However, if I must,
bring me a tablet whiter than a star, or hand of hymning angel. Don't
underestimate the sacrifice I am making. I never felt less like
correspondence in my life."

She rewarded him.

"What shall I say?" he inquired, his pen hovering over the paper. "Shall
I compare him to a summer's day? What _shall_ I say?"

"Say what you want to say," she suggested helpfully.

He shook his head. "What I want to say--what I have been wanting for the
past twenty-four hours to say to every man, woman, and child I met--is
'Mabel and I are betrothed, and joy is borne on burning wheels.' But
that wouldn't be a very good opening for a letter of strictly formal,
not to say sinister character. I have got as far as 'Dear Mr. Marlowe.'
What comes next?"

"I am sending you a manuscript which I thought you might like to see,"
she prompted as she came to his chair before the escritoire. "Something
of that kind. Please try. I want to see what you write, and I want it to
go to him at once. You see, I would be contented enough to leave things
as they are; but you say you must get at the truth, and if you must, I
want it to be as soon as possible. Do it now--you know you can if you
will--and I'll send it off the moment it is ready. Don't you ever feel
that?--the longing to get the worrying letter into the post and off your
hands, so that you can't recall it if you would, and it's no use fussing
any more about it."

"I will do a