me. That means, I suppose, that you want to take back your
freedom and give me mine. Wouldn't it be kinder, in that case,
to tell me so? It is worse than anything to go on as we are
now. I don't know how to put these things but since you seem
unwilling to write to me perhaps you would prefer to send your
answer to Mr. Frederic Spearman, the American lawyer here. His
address is 100, Boulevard Haussmann. I hope--"

She broke off on the last word. Hope? What did she hope,
either for him or for herself? Wishes for his welfare would
sound like a mockery--and she would rather her letter should
seem bitter than unfeeling. Above all, she wanted to get it
done. To have to re-write even those few lines would be
torture. So she left "I hope," and simply added: "to hear
before long what you have decided."

She read it over, and shivered. Not one word of the past-not
one allusion to that mysterious interweaving of their lives
which had enclosed them one in the other like the flower in its
sheath! What place had such memories in such a letter? She had
the feeling that she wanted to hide that other Nick away in her
own bosom, and with him the other Susy, the Susy he had once
imagined her to be .... Neither of them seemed concerned with
the present business.

The letter done, she stared at the sealed envelope till its
presence in the room became intolerable, and she understood that
she must either tear it up or post it immediately. She went
down to the hall of the sleeping hotel, and bribed the night-
porter to carry the letter to the nearest post office, though he