you spoke to your cousin and I got in a few words."

"What did you say?"

"What could I say? Something to the effect that the convent must be a
very happy home."

"How did you know she cared for you?"

"I always know that. The second time we went there she told me she
was going to leave the convent. I asked her what had decided her to
take that step, and she looked at me--that thirsting look which women
cannot repress. I said I hoped I should see her when she came to
London; she said she hoped so too. Then I knew it was all right. I
pressed her hand, and when we went again I said she would find a
letter waiting for her at the post-office. Somehow she got the letter
sooner than I expected, and wrote to say she'd come here if she
could. Here is the letter. But will she come?"

"Even if she does, I don't see what good it will do you; it isn't as
if you were really in love with her."

"I believe I am in love; it sounds rather awful, doesn't it? but she
is wondrous sweet. I want to be true to her. I want to live for her.
I'm not half so bad as you think I am. I have often tried to be
constant, and now I mean to be. This ceaseless desire of change is
very stupid, and it leads to nothing. I'm sick of change, and would
think of none but her. You have no idea how I have altered since I
have seen her. I used to desire all women. I wrote a ballade the
other day on the women of two centuries hence. Is it not shocking