driving force had been taken away from him. He would sit in front of his
table and remember that all the masterpieces of the world are contained
in the alphabet and it would prevent him from writing. And then he would
think of her and that would mean writing to her or writing for her. In a
sense, everything he wrote was "To her." He remembered the first time
that he had dared to write her a letter without a beginning. His pen had
trembled in his hand. And yet it is the way all borderland letters
begin, whether the frontier is between acquaintanceship and friendship,
or between friendship and love. For there are moments in life when if
you can't say "My own Blessed," you can say nothing--omission is the
substitute for the absolute. Only with her, formality was a flavouring
of intimacy, a curious fragrance like a faint clinging of unseen
pot-pourri. And so, for a long time after he had sent her his first
endless, beginningless out-pouring, her letters had begun, "Dear
Mr. ----" and had ended very tidily, with a signature at the bottom of a
page.

He had dedicated his first novel to her,--"To Mrs. ----" The dedication
had pleased him. It was so immensely full of reserve and respect and the
possibility of other things. A little, locked box of a dedication. It
had pleased her, too. "It is a lovely dedication," she had said with
that smile she had, which was like a peeping glimmer of sunshine on a
grey day.

He had always gone on dedicating his books to her. His collection of
poems had been called "To Jane"--which was not her name, but his name
for her--a deep, clear name, resolute and courageous, calm and direct
and sure. A still name. He wondered if any one had ever given to another
human being as much as he had given her. Or perhaps it was no longer a
question of giving. Everything came from her and belonged to her. She