*

I cannot write here all the infinity of emotions I experienced later,
when, with Alice in my arms, it suddenly came upon me what I had done.
Ages ago--I have forgotten how to feel. I could name now a thousand
feelings I used to have, but I can no longer even understand them. For
only the heart can understand the heart, and the intellect only the
intellect.

With Alice in my arms, I told the whole story. It was she who, with her
quick instinct, grasped what I had never noticed.

"But Carl!" she cried, "Don't you see?--It will mean that we can never
be married!" And, for the first time, I understood. If only I could
re-capture some conception of that love! I have always known, since the
last shred of comprehension slipped from me, that I lost something very
wonderful when I lost love. But what does it matter? I lost Alice too,
and I could not have known love again without her.

We were very sad and very tragic that night. For hours and hours we
argued the question over. But I felt somewhat that I was inextricably
caught in my fate, that I could not retreat now from my resolve. I was
perhaps, very school-boyish, but I felt that it would be cowardice to
back out now. But it was Alice again who perceived a final aspect of the
matter.

"Carl," she said to me, her lips very close to mine, "it need not come
between our love. After all, ours would be a poor sort of love if it
were not more of the mind than of the flesh. We shall remain lovers, but
we shall forget mere carnal desire. I shall submit to that operation
too!"

And I could not shake her from her resolve. I would speak of danger that
I could not let her face. But, after the fashion of women, she disarmed
me with the accusation that I did not love her, that I did not want her
love, that I was trying to escape from love. What answer had I for that,
but that I loved her and would do anything in the world not to lose her?

I have wondered sometimes since whether we might have known the love of
the mind. Is love something entirely of the flesh, something created by
an ironic God merely to propagate His race? Or can there be love without
emotion, love without passion--love between two cold intellects? I do
not know. I did not ask then. I accepted anything that would make our
way more easy.

There is no need to draw out the tale. Already my hand wavers, and my
time grows short. Soon there will be no more of me, no more of my
tale--no more of Mankind. There will