rson
it would be possible for one of them to love." That is the state of mind
to which you have brought me, with a little ink and a little paper, and
plenty of good intentions. It would take about a magnum of champagne to
exhilarate some men as your praise and your advice have exhilarated me.

When I wrote you last, I was in the dumps. It was a dull world, and all
the tigers I had ever shot were mounted on sackcloth, or stuffed with
ashes. Sounds disgusting, doesn't it? But suddenly, the sun broke out,
and dulness and tigers fled together. I suppose I must always have been
a creature of moods, and didn't know it; for all it took to change gray
Purgatorio to blue Paradiso was a few words from a girl. She said she
didn't love Dick, and would as soon marry my chauffeur--or words to that
effect. Explained everything--or, if she didn't explain, looked at me,
and I thought she had explained. I forget now whether she did explain or
not, rationally and satisfactorily, but it doesn't matter. There is no
one like her, and I have reached a stage of idiocy concerning her which
I would blush to describe. I see now that the feeling which a very young
man, hardly out of boyhood, dignified with the name of love, is merely a
kind of foundation that, when fallen into picturesque ruin, makes a good
firm flooring of experience to build second, or real, love, upon. I
don't know whether that's well or badly said, but it expresses my state
of mind.

If only this second true love of mine were not the daughter of the first
and false!

Even now, when I frankly acknowledge to myself that she can make the
light of the world for me, there are black moments when I distrust
her--distrust my impressions of her; and hate myself for doing both. I
used to believe so firmly in heredity that I can't throw aside my old
theories in a moment, even for her sake. How comes Ellaline de
Nesville's and Fred Lethbridge's daughter to be what this girl seems?
That's what I ask myself; but there again your letter helps. You remind
me that "our parents are not our only ancestors."

But enough of all this rhapsodizing and doubting. There's nothing
definite to tell you, except that she has said she doesn't care for Dick
Burden, and that, generally speaking, if appearances are against her, I
must kindly not judge by them.

"Give her the benefit of the doubt as long as you can," you say. But,
thank heaven I can do more. I give her the benefit of not doubting at
all,