or that; and without vainglory he showed how it should be borne, so
that those looking into the deep waters of the book (made clear by his
pellucid style) might see, not the author, but themselves.

A few of the critics said that if the book added nothing to his
reputation, it detracted nothing from it, but probably their pen added
this mechanically when they were away. What annoyed him more was the
two or three who stated that, much as they liked "Unrequited Love,"
they liked the "Letters" still better. He could not endure hearing a
good word said for the "Letters" now.

The great public, I believe, always preferred the "Letters," but among
important sections of it the new book was a delight, and for various
reasons. For instance, it was no mere story. That got the thoughtful
public. Its style, again, got the public which knows it is the only
public that counts.

Society still held aloof (there was an African traveller on view that
year), but otherwise everything was going on well, when the bolt came,
as ever, from the quarter whence it was least expected. It came in a
letter from Grizel, so direct as to be almost as direct as this: "I
think it is a horrid book. The more beautifully it is written the more
horrid it seems. No one was ever loved more truly than you. You can
know nothing about unrequited love. Then why do you pretend to know? I
see why you always avoided telling me anything about the book, even
its title. It was because you knew what I should say. It is nothing
but sentiment. You were on your wings all the time you were writing
it. That is why you could treat me as you did. Even to the last moment
you deceived me. I suppose you deceived yourself also. Had I known
what was in the manuscript I would not have kissed it, I would have
asked you to burn it. Had you not had the strength, and you would not,
I should have burned it for you. It would have been a proof of my
love. I have ceased to care whether you are a famous man or not. I
want you to be a real man. But you will not let me help you. I have
cried all day. GRIZEL."

Fury. Dejection. The heroic. They came in that order.

"This is too much!" he cried at first, "I can stand a good deal,
Grizel, but there was once a worm that turned at last, you know. Take
care, madam, take care. Oh, but you are a charming lady; you can
decide everything for everybody, can't you! What delicious letters you
write, something unexpected in everyone of them! There are p