hould be obliged not only to accept it in the past, but to recognize
it in the future. My wife must be my social equal and the natural
associate of high-bred women. I must be able to take any man by the
throat who looks at or speaks of her as does not please me. This
woman's character, intellect, manners and appearance are public
property for all purposes of criticism and comment. She is unsexed.
My wife must be dependent on me, clinging to me. This woman has always
stood, and will always stand alone; and yet I have thought that she
was capable of such deep, strong, concentrated feeling that the man
who owned her heart might do with her as he liked. This, I admit, has
tempted me to think of marriage, for, after all, George, it would be
a luxury to be very much loved. This woman would love a man in another
fashion from that which prevails in society.

But I have put the idea away from me, and here I am, determined not to
marry her, and yet feeling that I have unintentionally wronged her.
I have not been near her these seven days. I know she expects me--she
has every right to expect me--but I will not go till I have decided
what to say and do. I am too weak to go otherwise. Write to me,
George, and advise me; and remember that she is not like the women of
whom we have both known so many. She has no more idea of flirting than
had Hippolyta queen of the Amazons or Zenobia queen of Palmyra--those
two strong-minded women of old days. I am joking, but I assure you
I am not jolly. I am afraid, George, that she truly loves me, and,
unsexed though she be, love has made a woman of her, and I fear is
unmanning me.

Yours always,
HENRY LAWRENCE.

P.S. I open my letter to say that it is too late for you to write when
you receive this: it will be over. I have just got a note from her
asking to see me. I shall speak frankly, but I feel like a hound. As
ever, H.L.

_Journal_.

_Dec_. 11. I am resolved to write it all down as it happened. I wrote
him a note this afternoon, and this evening he came--handsome, pale
and quiet. He walked up to me, took my hand in his, pressed it and let
it go. He did not wait for me to speak, fortunately, for I could
not have spoken: I could not have commanded my voice. He said--oh
so quietly and steadily!--"I should have come to see you to-night, I
think, if you had not asked me: I had so much to say."

"I thought you would never come," I answered.

He rose and walked hurriedly up and down t