fficult letter I have ever written. For I don't feel
that I can make you understand at all just how things are. But somehow or
other I do feel that this is going to hurt you frightfully, and, oh,
Dick, do forgive me. But if it will console or help at all, know this,"
and the words were underlined--as indeed were many words in Violet
Oliver's letters--"that I never was good enough for you and you are well
rid of me. I told you what I was, didn't I, Dick?--a foolish lover of
beautiful things. I tried to tell you the whole truth that last evening
in the garden at Peshawur, but you wouldn't let me, Dick. And I must tell
you now. I never sent the pearl necklace back, Dick, although I told you
that I did. I meant to send it back the night when I parted from the
Prince. I packed it up and put it ready. But--oh, Dick, how can I tell
you?--I had had an imitation one made just like it for safety, and in the
night I got up and changed them. I couldn't part with it--I sent back the
false one. Now you know me, Dick! But even now perhaps you don't. You
remember the night in Peshawur, the terrible night? Mr. Ralston wondered
why, after complaining that my window was unbolted, I unbolted it myself.
Let me tell you, Dick! Mr. Ralston said that 'theft' was the explanation.
Well, after I tried to tell you in the garden and you would not listen, I
thought of what he had said. I thought it would be such an easy way out
of it, if the thief should come in when I was asleep and steal the
necklace and go away again before I woke up. I don't know how I brought
myself to do it. It was you, Dick! I had just left you, I was full of
thoughts of you. So I slipped back the bolt myself. But you see, Dick,
what I am. Although I wanted to send that necklace back, I couldn't, I
_simply couldn't_, and it's the same with other things. I would be very,
very glad to know that I could be happy with you, dear, and live your
life. But I know that I couldn't, that it wouldn't last, that I should be
longing for other things, foolish things and vanities. Again, Dick, you
are well rid of a silly vain woman, and I wish you all happiness in that
riddance. I never would have made you a good wife. Nor will I make any
man a good wife. I have not the sense of a dog. I know it, too! That's
the sad part of it all, Dick. Forgive me, and thanks, a thousand thanks,
for the honour you ever did me in wanting me at all." Then followed--it
seemed to Linforth--a cry. "Won't you forgiv