If only I could sleep! During the days I am busy, but I dread the
long nights when questions crowd that, fight as I may, I cannot keep
from asking. Selwyn is my friend. I never doubt a friend. But why
does he not come to me? Why does he not make clear that which he
must know is inexplicable to me?

I may never marry Selwyn, but certainly I shall marry no one else.
How could we hope for happiness when we feel so differently toward
much that is vital, when our attitude to life is as apart as the
poles? When each thinks the other wrong in points of view and manner
of living? Selwyn was born in a house with high walls around it. He
likes its walls. He does not care for many to come in, and cares
still less to go outside to others. Few people interest him. All
sorts interest me. We are both selfish and stubborn, but both hate
that which is not clean and clear, and save from his own lips I would
not believe that in his life is aught of which he could not tell me.

I have never told him I loved him, never promised to marry him. To
live in his high-walled house with its conventional customs, its
age-dimmed portraits, its stiff furnishings, and shut-out sunshine,
would stifle every cell in brain and lungs, and to marry him would be
to marry his house. I hate his house, hate the aloofness, the lack
of sympathy it represents. Its proud past I can appreciate, but not
its useless present. Save his brother Harrie, it is the one thing of
his old life left Selwyn. At the death of his father he bought
Harrie's interest and it is all his now. I would not ask him to live
elsewhere, but I would choke and smother did I live in his house.
And yet--