For the first time in my life, I have been a little cross with you,
Constance of my heart. My anger did not last long, but even when it
was practically at an end I felt obliged to play at being cross with
you, and therefore would not write. But to-day comes another sweet
letter from you, and I am miserable to think you should have had to
write a second time before getting an answer to your dear words.
Forgive me! I do love you so! I shall tell you quite frankly why I
was cross. You must never tease me again about Gabriel Norton. I
don't like to be teased at the best of times, and I think it
positively wrong to make love a subject for laughter and nonsense.
You see, I allow that I love him; of course I do, but not as you
imagine. Surely there is a love of spirit to spirit which stands
higher than the material love of man and woman. It is just because
we look upon each other in the first place as human beings, as
comrades on the road of life, that our friendship is a source of
strength and comfort to us. If either were to harbour other
thoughts, all that is beautiful in our intercourse must come to an
end. No, you are silly; you must never say such things again,
promise me that. Why, it is just the very absence of love that
_makes_ our friendship. If only people would believe this, if only
men and women would learn to exchange their thoughts in freedom, to
be simple and open in their dealings with each other, what a much
better world this world would be!

But you are just like the rest; indeed, worse than the rest.
Because, somehow or other, whether it's the fault of your curls or
of your lips, or of your smile, or of your whole sweet self, I know
not, but because no man ever draws near you but what you make a fool
of him, you seem to think all men resemble your victims, all women