LETTER XXVI.


GRAYSMILL, February 7th.

So it's all settled. You are very good to me, my pretty Constance.
Now I say to myself hourly, "In sixteen days I shall see her," and
oh, believe me, I am glad! I think I am beginning to lose my head,
that I am fit for all folly. We walked together yesterday; we were
not very talkative. In the lane, when we were coming home, a man on
a bicycle turned sharply round the corner, and I was lost in
thought, so that I was caught unawares, and in fact knew nothing of
the matter until I felt myself pulled aside by Gabriel. I thought he
would let go my arm, but he did not, and for the few yards of road
that remained I could not see out of my eyes. I said to myself, "He
is holding my arm,--perhaps he loves me." I was a fool; of course,
it meant nothing; and I am certain, too, that it was imagination on
my part led me to believe he looked differently at me when he said
good-bye.

That is what frightens me. Of course, it was pure self-delusion;
but, if I am going to begin that sort of folly, it is high time to
come away. Indeed, the folly of it. Besides, I suppose I ought to
feel ashamed. I am sure he knows now quite well that I love him, and
perhaps that is why he looked strangely at me when he said good-bye.
But I don't want his pity; O God forbid! Nor his, nor anybody's. Do
you hear? Never pity me, Constance.