y eyes. So I shall kiss him there as often as he wishes.
Then, when he understands, I shall not fear for him. He is a man.
Only, if I told him with my lips, he would not understand. He must
find out for himself. Then he will throw back his shoulders and take
the blow--as we all of us have had to take our blows. It will be no
worse for him than for you, dear, or for me.

It is not as I kissed him that I should kiss you. How silly it is of
men to ask for kisses when, if they come at all, they come unasked.
What shall I do with all of mine that are for you alone? I throw them
out across the dark to you--here and here and here.

I wonder what you are doing at this moment? I have wondered so about
every moment since you went. Because I cannot know, I feel as if I
were being robbed. At times I fancy I can see as clearly as if I were
with you. You went to the station and bought your ticket and got into
your compartment. I could see you sitting there smoking, your eyes
turned out the window. I could see what you saw, but I could not tell
of what you were thinking. And that is what counts. That is the only
thing that counts. There are those about me who watch me going my
usual way, but how little they know of what a change has come over me!
How little even Peter knows, who imagines he knows me so well.

I see you reaching Paris and driving to your hotel. I wonder if you
are at the Normandie. I don't even know that. I'd like to know that.
I wonder if you would dare sleep in your old room. Oh, I'd like to
know that. It would be so restful to think of you there. But what, if
there, are you thinking about? About me, at all? I don't want you to
think about me, but I 'd die if I knew you did _not_ think about me.

I don't want you to be worried, dear you. I won't have you unhappy.
You said once, "Is n't it possible to care a little without caring too
much?" Now I 'm going to ask you: "Is n't it possible for you to think
of me a little without thinking too much?" If you could remember some
of those evenings on the ride to Nice,--even if with a smile,--that
would be better than nothing. If you could remember that last night
before we got to Nice, when--when I looked up at you and something
almost leaped from my eyes to yours. If you could remember that with
just a little knowledge of what it meant--not enough to make you
unhappy, but enough to make you want to see me again. Could you do
that without gett