h
life as I best can, and, till I saw you, struggling often, no
doubt, in very earthy ways. I am not a philosopher, nor an
idealist, with expectations, like Delafield. This
rough-and-tumble world is all I know. It's good enough for
me--good enough to love a friend in, as--I vow to God,
Julie!--I have loved you.

"There, it's out, and you must put up with it. I couldn't
help it. I am too miserable.

"But--

"But I won't write any more. I shall stay in my rooms till
twelve o'clock. You owe me promptness."

* * * * *

Julie put down the letter.

She looked round her little study with a kind of despair--the despair
perhaps of the prisoner who had thought himself delivered, only to find
himself caught in fresh and stronger bonds. As for ambition, as for
literature--here, across their voices, broke this voice of the senses,
this desire of "the moth for the star." And she was powerless to resist
it. Ah, why had he not accepted his dismissal--quarrelled with her at
once and forever?

She understood the letter perfectly--what it offered, and what it
tacitly refused. An intimate and exciting friendship--for two years. For
two years he was ready to fill up such time as he could spare from his
clandestine correspondence with her cousin, with this romantic,
interesting, but unprofitable affection. And then?

She fell again upon his letter. Ah, but there was a new note in it--a
hard, strained note, which gave her a kind of desperate joy. It seemed
to her that for months she had been covetously listening for it in vain.

She was beginning to be necessary to him; he had _suffered_--through
her. Never before could she say that to herself. Pleasure she had given
him, but not pain; and it is pain that is the test and consecration of--

Of what?... Well, now for her answer. It was short.

"I am very sorry you thought me rude. I was tired with
talking and unpacking, and with literary work--housework,
too, if the truth were known. I am no longer a fine lady, and
must slave for myself. The thought, also, of an interview
with Lord Lackington which faced me, which I went through as
soon as you, Dr. Meredith, and Mr. Delafield had gone,
unnerved me. You were good to write to me, and I am grateful
indeed. As to your appointment, and your career, you owe no
one anything. Everything is in your own hands.